Pretending to be Harry Potter (and Other Heartwarming Activities)
by hananda
Summary: Horcrux Tom Riddle wakes up in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest in Harry Potter's body. Vanquishing Lord Voldemort is the easy part; being attached to Harry Potter's soul for sixteen years may or may not give one a bit of a hero complex. Pretending to be Harry Potter, however, is much, much harder. Especially when all of his friends are actually kind of nice.
1. A Foreword by Harry Potter

A/N:

This story is cross-posted from AO3, written by Amanda (duplicity) and Hannah (waitingondaisies). Enjoy our spiral to insanity as Tom Riddle learns some sanity.

Find this story on AO3 at: (slash) works (slash) 20631227

Alternatively, this chapter would be called "How Harry Potter Learned to Stop Worrying and Let His Saving-People-Thing Take the Wheel".

Some parts of this chapter were taken verbatim from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling.

* * *

_**PROLOGUE**_

_**King's Cross Revised, A Foreword by Harry Potter**_

* * *

_Happiness seemed to radiate from Dumbledore like light, like fire: Harry had never seen the man so utterly, so palpably content. _

_"Explain," said Harry. _

_"But you already know," said Dumbledore. He twiddled his thumbs together. _

_"I let him kill me," said Harry. "Didn't I?" _

_"You did," said Dumbledore, nodding. "Go on!" _

_"So the part of his soul that was in me..." _

_Dumbledore nodded still more enthusiastically, urging Harry onward, a broad smile of encouragement on his face. _

_"...has it gone?" _

_"Oh yes!" said Dumbledore. "Yes, he destroyed it. Your soul is whole, and completely your own, Harry." _

_"But then…" _

_Harry glanced over his shoulder to where the small, maimed creature trembled under the chair. _

_"What is that, Professor?" _

_"Something that is beyond either of our help," said Dumbledore. _

There was silence for a moment as Harry turned this over in his head. The creature, too, went quiet, as thought it could sense this was a pivotal moment.

"I thought we were done with the lying and the games and the manipulation, Professor."

Dumbledore looked surprised at this, but waited for Harry to continue. Harry, with his body still half-turned towards the Horcrux that lay under the seat, spoke slowly.

"I'm not dead. Not yet, anyways. And that, there, is the piece of Tom's soul that was bonded to me. So, if I'm not yet dead, then he isn't either."

Harry took calm, purposed strides back to the bench where the Horcrux lay beneath. The sense of extreme aversion between them increased, as though Harry and the child couldn't possibly be allowed to exist in the same space anymore. It was, with some difficulty, that Harry crouched down low enough to see the Horcrux clearly with his own eyes.

The small thing shivered under Harry's gaze. It was quieter, now, and maybe even a little less ugly than before. The flayed skin now appeared to be not as severe as he peered at the Horcrux more closely.

"My fifth year at Hogwarts," Harry began, then paused, trying to reconstruct his thoughts. "I thought long and hard about how Voldemort and I were so different. How someone like him was really someone like me: a half-blood, an orphan. And I felt bad for him, when I realized he'd never known love, or friendship. And when his mind touched mine, I could feel how _scared _he was of that love. Not because he didn't want it, but because he was just afraid of what he didn't know."

Harry could feel Dumbledore's gaze behind him; he knew that the Headmaster had followed him for but a few paces before stopping. Time felt very different here. When Harry stopped to think, it was as though everything around him paused much in the same way. Like Dumbledore and the Horcrux were waiting for him to speak.

"You know, when you showed me Tom's history in the Pensieve, I kept expecting to find one moment, just one memory that explained why he chose to become Voldemort. But I didn't, I found myself understanding him, understanding why he ended up the way he did."

Tom Riddle had no parents. No home to go back to during the summers between school years. But he also had no Ron, no Hermione, no Sirius, no Weasleys and no Gryffindor. Harry could imagine being a lonely half-blood orphan who was Sorted into Slytherin, the coldest of the four houses, because it _had _almost happened to him.

For the first time since Harry had left Privet Drive, Harry thought of the cupboard under the stairs. Inexplicably, he thought of Tom's room at the orphanage, of the cupboard that existed there. The one full of things Tom had stolen from the other orphans. Harry had watched Dumbledore's memory of setting Tom's cupboard on fire with no small feeling of trepidation.

Hadn't Harry himself hoarded Dudley's discards, stolen them and hidden them away in his own cupboard? Harry knew what jealousy felt like, what it meant to covet. He and Tom both... the boys who didn't belong and the things that didn't belong to them.

Harry said, "You failed us both so badly, so many times. You sent me back to the Dursleys. You sent him back to the orphanage. Forcing us to return to places where we would have never felt or understood love. We grew up in ignorance of the Wizarding world because you wanted us to."

Finally, Harry looked up and back at where Dumbledore stood. The old wizard looked… angry wasn't quite the right word for it. Frustrated, perhaps. Like he was just now realizing that Harry had wrenched control of the conversation entirely and was now steering them into uncharted waters.

"Remember what he did, in his ignorance, in his greed and his cruelty," Dumbledore insisted, trying to take back control of the conversation. "Voldemort chose the darkness, not just once, but many, many times. He does not comprehend love, or friendship. He cannot understand it. Of house-elves and children's tales, of love, loyalty, and innocence, Voldemort knows and understands nothing. _Nothing_. You cannot help him, Harry. There is no help possible for one like him."

But Harry turned his gaze away again, looking back to the Horcrux. A blanket had appeared, neatly folded on top of the chair. It was also white, much like their grand surroundings. Harry grabbed the blanket and reached out to where Tom lay under the seat. The child was smoother, less damaged than it had been before. Harry felt, with increased certainty, that he was doing the right thing as he bundled up the small child into his arms.

"Did he ever get a chance?" Harry asked, almost rhetorically. "Did anyone ever give Tom Riddle any love or friendship, Professor?"

Dumbledore met Harry's accusing gaze sadly. "And what would you have me say, Harry? For you to go back, it must go on."

"You once told me that we must choose between doing what is right and what is easy." Harry felt the conviction rising in his chest, the sureness of it. "I've already done the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. When I stepped into that clearing in the Forbidden Forest, I had already accepted what was going to happen. I had no intentions of going back. I became the Master of Death, something which neither you nor Tom Riddle ever got right. So, with all due respect, Professor, I'm going to do the right thing."

"And your friends, Harry? What of them? You would give up the chance to live the fullest extent of your life with those you love? Would you abandon them to the mercies of Lord Voldemort?"

"It's different," Harry said. "Don't you see? I've done what my mother did. They're protected. He can't torture them. He can't touch them."

In his head, without conscious thought or effort, Harry could clearly hear Hermione chiding him and telling him that he had a bit of a 'saving-people thing'. Which was a fair point, and she and Ron were probably going to be pretty mad when they found out, but Harry couldn't help but smile at the thought of them being exasperated over him.

"They would understand," Harry decided, "because they know me, and they know I've got this saving-people thing. And they'd be angry at me, and maybe even hate me for a while, but they'd come around because they'd understand why I'd done it."

Dumbledore stared at him.

"You even knew there was a risk I would die doing this," Harry accused. "And now I'm doing it for my own reasons. If I send him back… if I give him a chance…" The child in his grasp squirmed, its eyes screwed shut. Tom's face was nearly healed now, restored to its former glory, handsome even for a toddler. New, soft skin stretched over chubby limbs that struggled outwards from the curves of the thick, woolen blanket. "I'm not afraid to go on, Professor."

"But if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good. By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. I implore you to choose carefully, Harry. It is not only one soul which hangs in the balance of this decision."

"If I go," Harry said, with a note of finality, "I can come back. I will come back here, and I can still go on. But if I leave him here, if I leave Tom..." Somehow, Harry knew that if he left this platform empty handed, the child in his arms would not be so lucky as to be able to simply board a train. Tom Riddle had mutilated his soul beyond recognition, and Harry did not see any other way to give the boy in his arms a second chance to live.

The area around them seemed brighter, now. The blank cleanliness of the train station was beginning to glow. Harry pulled back the hood of the blanket to reveal Tom's face. Even for a baby, he had quite a bit of hair, a thick, curly mop of it that tickled against the white wool.

Reaching out a forefinger, Harry brushed the hair aside to reveal the clean space of the boy's unblemished forehead. The white mist around them continued to pulse, surging forwards to fill up the air around them. Harry couldn't even make out the form of Dumbledore standing just behind him anymore.

When Tom Riddle opened his eyes, they were a startling emerald green, like a bright flash of the forest was reflected in them before whiteness consumed Harry's entire field of vision.

* * *

A/N:

The tea is that Harry saved the creepy baby because he's not wearing his glasses when he arrives in King's Cross and therefore can't actually see how ugly it is.

This fic is part of a series involving Tom's (very long) road to becoming a semi-ok human. Find the series outline on our profile!

This story in particular will involve Tom adjusting to living Harry's life and all the accompanying introspective dramatics. It is, in fact, Harry's dying wish that Tom WILL learn about love and friendship or he will catch these hands.

Please leave reviews! They feed us!


	2. Tom Riddle Asks WWHPD?

A/N:

Alternative chapter title: "The One Where Tom Riddle Realizes Murder is Bad and He Shouldn't Have Done It".

Some parts of this chapter were taken verbatim from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling.

* * *

_**CHAPTER ONE**_

_**Tom Riddle asks 'What Would Harry Potter Do?'**_

* * *

He was lying face down on the hard forest floor. Every inch of him ached horrifically. His limbs felt unnaturally heavy, as though the sensation in them was only now beginning to return. Everything else was distant and far away, like an elusive train of thought that continued to run off despite him chasing after it.

He could feel glasses digging into the side of his face, the metal frames sharp and cold. The weight of the glasses on his face was strange and unnatural, like the opposite of a phantom feeling.

The glasses… his glasses?

The last thing he could remember was seeing an endless amounts of bright white light.

There had been so much white light that it must have been a trick, because even the memory of brightness felt… surreal. It was as though it could not have possibly existed and he could not have possibly seen it. Like he was summoning a memory of the light rather than viewing his own recollection of it.

It was hard to focus given how his entire body felt like it had been used as a Bludger bat. He felt lightheaded, like an oppressive weight had been lifted from where it had once rested comfortably against his brain. He had the distinct impression he had been swimming through gallons of water and only just recently broken the surface.

Concentrating harder, he began to recall the echoing of voices. Voices that said the soul fragment in Harry Potter was supposed to have been killed. That the part of Voldemort's soul that was bonded to Harry had been destroyed by the Killing Curse.

He dove back into himself, searching for an answer. It was here, somewhere, he knew. There was a reason why everything felt simultaneously full and empty all at once, like the poles had suddenly reversed themselves and were dragging his consciousness in an entirely new direction.

Harry's mind was a jumbled mess, nothing like the organized mind of a proper Occlumens or Legilimens. There were chests and cupboards and entire rooms packed full of memories and thoughts. Sometimes the relations between the concepts were unclear. He brushed by a number of echoes on pure instinct, not needing to look them over carefully, too used to following Harry's usual chaotic thought processes.

Thoughts, feelings, smells, sights, tastes, experiences flooded his senses as he focused harder on finding the right memory. All that Harry had lived and all that he had passively witnessed demanded his attention. Everything was… louder, somehow. More brilliant, more _alive_.

He had broken the surface at long last and he was now looking at the vast, unimaginably infinite night sky that represented Harry's life. Constellations and stars and far off planets held cryptic meanings he had yet to discover, let alone fathom.

Before he could be overwhelmed, he ripped his mind from the corridors of Harry's mind and, with huge effort, refocused on the present.

He heard Bellatrix say, her voice dripping with sensuality, "My Lord... _ my Lord.._."

He had no idea of what would happen now; Harry hadn't made a plan beyond 'get hit by Avada Kedavra'. And Harry had… Harry had been hit by the Killing Curse.

His head hurt horrifically. Each of his thoughts boomed loudly within the caverns of his skull, a harsh contrast to the eerie quiet surrounding him. Rooted now to the frontmost part of Harry, he was suddenly aware of everything. The buffer that was Harry's constant presence was missing. He was suffering in his solitude; all he longed for was some peace and quiet within the gaping emptiness of Harry's mind.

As he lay there on the forest ground, feeling sick for a reason he couldn't begin to place, he slowly became aware of his—_Harry's?_—wand pressing into his chest. The slight cushioning around his stomach that told him that the Cloak of Invisibility was stuffed there, hopefully out of sight.

The noisy forms that had been crowded around him began to retreat backwards. Something must have happened to Voldemort while Harry had been unconscious. Perhaps Voldemort, too, had passed out from the impact of the Killing Curse. It must have brought the Death Eaters in closer, nearer to where Harry's body also lay, until they were reassured of their Lord's continued health.

"I do not require assistance," said Voldemort coldly, and though he could not see it, he pictured Bellatrix withdrawing a helpful hand. "The boy… is he dead?"

There was complete silence in the clearing. He didn't know the answer to that question, either. Nobody approached him, but he felt their concentrated gaze; it seemed to press him harder into the ground. He couldn't remember feeling quite so _ aware _ of that sensation until today, of being watched so closely that every inch of his body was alert to it.

"You," said Voldemort, and there was a bang and a small shriek of pain. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

He did not know who had been sent to verify. He could only lie there, and wait to be examined.

_ "Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?" _

"Yes," he breathed back. The word left his lips without any conscious thought or effort on his part, without any consideration towards the truthfulness of the answer.

He felt the hand on his chest contract; her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn as her presence faded away from him.

"He is dead!" Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.

Narcissa's voice rang throughout the clearing, sending a jolt through his body. He had answered her. She had clearly heard him. How had he known how to answer her?

He tried to recall what he had done, what part of himself he had roused to force the press of air from his lungs as he exhaled the word. The movement of his throat and mouth that formed the sound. It wasn't supposed to be him doing this, he wasn't supposed to be thinking about this. This wasn't him.

Where was Harry?

The deafening silence in his mind provided no answer. He had answered Narcissa. That much he was sure of.

He mentally retreated, frantically rifling back through the corridors filled with memories. Why was he suddenly able to speak— not only speak, but also think independently?

_ Where was Harry? _

The question echoed through his mind, insistent, because it seemed imperative that Harry be here for this. Confronting Voldemort was Harry's job, not his. Harry would be back and he would take control. He would do his saving-people thing, and—

A sudden tightness seized in his chest. His head felt even lighter, almost dizzying, like someone had cast Wingardium Leviosa on his brain and it was trying to float away. He hated it, he wished Harry was there to absorb the sensations of anxiety and discomfort.

But before he could work himself into a proper panic his lungs miraculously expanded, and he felt rather than knew that he was inhaling air.

Breathing.

He had forgotten what it felt like to fill his lungs up and empty them out again. The automated function that Harry had diligently performed for over 17 years had become mere background noise.

For as many years as he could recall, he hadn't ever had to feel breathing, let alone think about it. He was only ever a passenger in this body. But now it was occurring to him that he _ could _ feel it, over and over and over again, a never-ending cycle of sensation that existed whenever he stopped long enough to remember it.

Pausing for a moment, he was startled to realize that he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. How long had it been since he'd felt that?

Someone passed close by and, with a lurch of terror, he knew that it was Voldemort. It was strange, experiencing Harry's emotions firsthand. To feel fear without the thick fog of distance to muffle the intensity of it.

And then Voldemort spoke, his voice magically magnified so that it swelled through the grounds, crashing upon his eardrums. The sound of it—sharp and familiar—was alarming.

"Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman, or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together."

He had the immediate thought that Voldemort was arrogant and that this would be his downfall. The framing that Harry's consciousness had provided over the course of years and years made that quite clear. Voldemort had chosen to take a path that had diverted from his own in such a way that the two parts of his soul no longer shared the same desires.

"Harry," sobbed Hagrid. "Oh, Harry... Harry..."

Large, wet tears soaked into his shirt. The half-giant was crying about someone who wasn't even _ here _ anymore. With sick realization, he realized that Harry _ wasn't _ here anymore. He was reminded, again, that Harry had been hit by the Killing Curse.

He laid there in Hagrid's arms, comatose, listening as the outpouring of grief around him swelled to an overwhelming amount.

His eyelids shifted imperceptibly. He had to see them, he had to know. Through the barest of slits he could make out Harry's friends in the crowd. Hermione, who was crying freely, supported by Ron on her left side. Ginny, who bore a fiery, heartbroken expression on her young face. The ranks around them filled out with others: Professor McGonagall, Neville, Luna, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. They were all devastated.

Harry… Harry was the one who ought to be hearing this. He was the one being mourned. The boy's words of two years ago came back to him, then.

_ You're the one who is weak. You will never know love or friendship. And I feel sorry for you. _

His heart was thumping traitorously loud within his ribcage. Each beat demanded accountability for the body which he now possessed. Then, without warning, he could feel—really _feel_—cold, hard cobblestones press into his body. Hagrid must have set him down. Voldemort must have commanded Hagrid to lay Harry Potter's limp body down at his feet.

The arrogance of the action, the disrespect of it, rankled. Harry was dead and Lord Voldemort sought only to humiliate those who had cared for him. That felt wrong.

Someone stepped forward. He recognized the voice. Neville Longbottom, who had once been a timid boy who was afraid of his own shadow.

Assimilating this new version of Neville with the one that existed in his head was unexpectedly hard. To compare this Neville with one from even a year ago was nearly impossible. The two concepts were foreign and indistinguishable.

How shortsighted Voldemort was, to view people as cattle to be categorized by blood. Time had proven again and again that people were worth more than their blood. He and Harry Potter, the half-blood orphan boys. Lily Potter and Hermione Granger, both talented Muggleborn witches. People worth fighting for, not fighting against.

He couldn't recall the point of the sadism and the carnage, other than for his own amusement. Everything he remembered of Voldemort also carried the weight of Harry's judgement atop it.

Looking further back, he recalled his sense of purpose as arrived at the Potters' house on that cold Halloween night over seventeen years ago. He had been there to slaughter two innocent people and their _baby_. How unremarkably callous he had been to that decision.

Heeding the word of a drunken Seer, he had been convinced the Potter child would become a threat. He had been so terrified of dying, so blinded to any other options, so driven to desperation by his fear, that he had been willing to do anything. Anything to survive the prophecy that had come to pass anyways.

The prophesied night where Voldemort had tried to kill Harry Potter shifted the entire world off of its axis. His actions had permanently altered the course of his life, of Harry's life. One fear-driven decision had caused an innocent child, _ his Harry_, years of misery at the hands of the Dursleys'.

An odd marker separated the mixed memories of that day. There existed, in the space of his mind where those memories were allocated, a section for before-Harry and a section for after-Harry. The tragic act of his soul piece merging with the innocent, untainted soul of Harry Potter's served as the dividing line upon which the universe has split itself.

While he could not recall the exact sensation of bonding, he did remember Harry's early days at the Dursleys' home with a horrific sort of clarity. The trembling terror at his abusive relatives, the utter _ longing _ Harry had felt for his parents… the door in his mind that held those echoes away rattled sharply. He knew that were he to even look merely through the keyhole of that door, those memories would still be as fresh and as unerringly painful as they had been when he first experienced them.

No. They were Harry's memories. Harry's memories, not his, not really. Lost as he was in his own introspection, he had committed a misstep by thinking of the memories as his own. His head spun again, its tenuous grip on his current consciousness threatening to snap and send him tumbling back into oblivion.

Again, he wished that the familiar veil of Harry's consciousness was there to shield him from the severity of reality. It had been easier not to think, not to feel.

_ Where was Harry? _

Lying limp in Hagrid's arms, surrounded by friend and foe alike, he found that he could relate to the memories of Harry's life that he carried within him. They were simultaneously familiar and alien to him. Comforting and frightening.

Hagrid's half-brother, Grawp, startled him from his thoughts by stumbling into the space between the armies only to be swarmed by Voldemort's own giants. And, somewhere in the distance, what sounded like hundreds of people began swarming over the castle walls and stampeding towards the main grounds of the castle.

Disoriented, he tried to reconnect to his sense of hearing. Attempting to pay attention to both his surroundings and his own internal dialogue was proving to be quite the challenge. He wasn't used to having to _ do _ things yet. Years spent as a mere passenger in Harry's body, barely even conscious of what Harry was doing, had ruined his ability to focus on more than one aspect of his existence at a time.

With effort, he took stock of the situation around him. Nagini was dead, he realized with sudden shock. Nagini had been slaughtered by Neville. Nagini had also been a Horcrux. There were mixed feelings of dismay and triumph mingling inside of him. Should he have felt the loss of yet another piece of his soul? He didn't know. His entire being was suffering from the discordance of the situation: the bewildering blend of Harry's empathetic feelings and his own disordered perceptions.

Only Harry possessed the insane amount of reckless Gryffindor bravery that would usually get them out of this type of situation. What in Salazar's name was he supposed to do without Harry?

But there were only two pieces of Tom Riddle's soul left now: himself and Voldemort.

So he had to do this, didn't he? For Harry, for those that Harry cared for. He was going to stop Lord Voldemort. One last battle, where one of them would, hypothetically, destroy the other for good.

_ Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. _

He knew Harry Potter was dead.

Harry Potter was _ dead_.

But he was still alive.

He flung himself to his feet, covering his head and body with the Invisibility Cloak. He crouched low, despite having hardly any idea of what he was going to do other than the certainty that he was going to do it.

In the next moment he was drawing his wand, magic flowing down his wand arm so naturally that it shocked him. The glossy shimmer of a Shield Charm formed effortlessly between Neville and Voldemort. There was confusion amongst both sides as the battle reignited.

Still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, he was sucked in by the flow of the crowd directly into the Great Hall. It occurred to him that he was really seeing it properly for the first time in years, if not decades. Seeing this room, the very heart of Hogwarts, desecrated by battle and bloodshed, was a betrayal he felt vividly.

Looking around, he took a moment to watch the students alongside their teachers, the parents alongside their children. The rest of Wizarding Britain was united against Voldemort and his forces.

He wanted to feign ignorance of the bad turn the course of the world had taken. But he couldn't. He felt wretched; he knew what it had taken to get here. He knew how much of himself it had cost, how much had been lost along the way by him and Harry both.

By playing the role of puppet and puppet master, he had orchestrated a war and eventually fallen victim to it.

The air around him was thick with determination. There were children—yes, there he could see the round cheeks and clumsy hands. They bore markings of those too young for war, of those who must have snuck back to the castle to fight.

These children should have been safely ensconced in bed, but instead they were watching the last minutes of the evening slide away as they fought for their lives.

The cost was too high, it already had been _ too high_, and he'd be damned if this escalated any further while he had the power to stop it. He knew very well that war left scars, scars that never quite went away.

Reaching up with a single, trembling hand, he touched the tip of his finger to the jagged lightning bolt scar. The raised scar tissue felt… different. Or perhaps he was the one feeling different.

He couldn't figure out what to make of that. This scar he had created out of his blinding fear and callous indifference; this mark had made Harry Potter famous. Harry saw this reminder of his parents' demise every time he looked in the mirror. A physical souvenir of the day Harry had lost any chance at a proper childhood.

It was wrong_ and he shouldn't have done it_.

The sheer force of this conclusion slammed into him, blacking out the world around him, silencing the entire hall and eradicating his vision. He faltered where he stood, blood rushing suddenly to his head as his heartbeat—his _ heartbeat_—throbbed violently in his ribcage.

_ He never should have killed Lily and James Potter. _

A hot bolt of sheer pain struck, expanding with the intensity of a Cruciatus from where his finger rested on his curse scar. Then the dam in the scar seemed to break, and the searing pain flooded his entire being, burning him up, the blood in his veins providing kindle for the fire.

Was this remorse?

He fell to his knees, clutching at his head. He was drifting away, his sense of self falling through the endless corridors of Harry's mind as he screamed internally. It was agony of the highest degree. He could feel the part of himself that was missing hemorrhaging violently, and it was tearing every piece of him, physical or not, apart in the process.

_ The only way to mend a broken soul is true remorse. _

Time passed. Or maybe it didn't. He was no longer aware of his surroundings, only the deep, fathomless ache that settled into all his internal cracks as what was left of his sanity slowly stitched itself back together.

The pain was fading now. The reality of the world around him was returning to his senses, and he could now form a coherent thought without being overwhelmed by the horror of his own stolen existence.

He blinked at the tableau before him, at the scene that was just now beginning to resume itself. Nothing had changed, not yet. The children he had observed were still alive. The world around him had not yet crumbled to dust. The Great Hall of Hogwarts was still standing.

Stumbling forward unthinkingly, he found himself drawn inexplicably to where Voldemort was dueling McGonagall, Shacklebolt, and Slughorn all at once.

He stood there, frozen, watching the battle unfold in slow, desperate motions. Time continued to drip like molasses, as though it was waiting for him to… to do what?

The broken pieces that made him up were still aching. He wasn't sure if this was a hallucination or a nightmare, that perhaps he would wake up in the orphanage once more. Or, worse yet, in the cupboard under the stairs.

There was an empty feeling where his heart ought to be, where the guilt had carved him hollow. Spells swirled around him, threads of fate and destiny that bound together all beings and their magic.

The connection he was missing finally snapped into place. The war inside his head quieted as the dust settled, allowing him to see the path ahead clearly. He knew what he had to do.

The battle around him sped up once more, and he saw Bellatrix Lestrange falling to Molly Weasley's efficient wand. Voldemort, enraged at the loss of his first and most powerful lieutenant, twisted his wand violently, flinging his adversaries away.

His legs carried him forwards, to Voldemort, to his first and final enemy. He felt the Cloak slipping from him as he strode into the bubble of space that existed around Voldemort. He wondered if anyone else could feel the tide of the battle shifting as he went to face the Dark Lord.

Around him cries of disbelief and amazement echoed off the walls: "He's alive!" and "HARRY!"

He narrowed his focus, discarding all of the background noise until the only sound remaining was that of his own footfalls. Each step brought him closer to confronting Voldemort.

The crowd was watching him, their movements slowing and stopping as the Boy-Who-Lived approached the Dark Lord for one final battle. With effort, he dove into the endlessness of his mind, drawing out the memories that had made up Harry Potter and pulling them over himself like a shroud.

The two of them were only a dueling circle's distance apart when he spoke, the words coming easily: "Surprised to see me, Tom?"

"Potter," Voldemort replied evenly, but there was anger layered beneath the greeting.

And then, like clockwork, they both began to circle around each other as the crowd finally fell silent and still.

"Everyone keep back! It's got to be me. Me and Tom," said the living, breathing form of Harry Potter.

"Potter doesn't mean that," Voldemort said, his red eyes wide. "That isn't how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?"

The taunts had no effect on him. "Nobody," he said simply. "There are no other Horcruxes. It's just you and me."

Voldemort hissed out a sound that could have been laughter. "You? You think you can stop me? When every other time you've managed to walk away from me has been the result of accident and luck?"

"Luck?" He didn't have to think long on his response; Harry had an answer to that, too. "Accident and luck that I always had my friends beside me, watching my back? Accident that my chosen family protected me better than Dark magic ever would have? You can call your failures accidents, Tom, but for me they've always been choices."

"Choice," Voldemort sneered. "There is no choice. Only power and those who are too weak to seize it. Only cowards who hide behind the wands of stronger wizards. I have eliminated all your greatest protectors and now I will kill you, Harry Potter, in front of those you call _ friends_."

"I think would be more scared if you had actually managed to kill me twenty minutes ago. But, seeing as I'm _ not _dead, I think it says a lot more about how bad you are at killing me than anything about my ability to stop you from doing it. As powerful as you claim to be, you're never able to defeat me. You never will be."

Voldemort seemed stunned for a moment, perhaps shocked by the sheer audacity of the statement. He was tempted to go on, to twist the knife of fear further into Voldemort, but he knew that this needed to be finished.

"All of your plans have gone wrong time and time again, Riddle. You think death is the final answer, that it's what stops you from achieving greatness. But there are ways to live beyond death that you will never understand. There are more important things— friendship and bravery and, yes, love."

No one was expecting the sudden burst of magnificent red light as dawn broke across the enchanted sky above them, even as he was raising his wand to begin the duel in earnest, even as Voldemort's face became drenched in the burning, fiery glow.

It was Harry's heart beating loudly in his chest as he lifted his wand arm, a curious blend of emotions mingling inside him. There were so many ugly emotions rearing up to the surface: the fear, the regret, the shame. But those emotions weren't supposed to be pretty, they were trying to protect you from the pain.

And so he let the pain consume him, let himself think of that which he had shied away from. He channelled all the moments he had carried with him since he had awoken in the Forbidden Forest and permitted his magic to tap into the dreadful pain of true remorse as he yelled— "_Expelliarmus!_"

The bolt of brilliant red spellfire that poured forth from his wand slammed into a green bolt of what could only be the _Avada Kedavra_, swallowing the green light up with a blinding intensity. And then, as though the colour of the two spells had cancelled each other out, the magic transformed into a stream of pure white as it continued along the trail that led back to the Elder Wand.

He did not have long to think on the implications of that, however, as he was suddenly overtaken by the potent feeling of deja-vu. But the peace of King's Cross Station was long gone, and now he only felt his knees crumble beneath him as the remorse poured through him, burning him alive.

When the blank whiteness washed over his vision, Tom Riddle had time only to wish that it was truly over, that Voldemort would finally cross to the afterlife just like Harry had.

* * *

A/N:

**tom:** —and god i wish harry's parents never died i feel really bad that happened because now i have to stand here and look at the results and it's so DEPRESSING—  
**voldy:** *instantly dead from tom's remorse*

~creepy cloud of smoke rises out of voldemort's body and merges with tom's~  
~crowd fucking goes NUTS~

**tom, panicking:** this is PERFECTLY NORMAL NOBODY PANIC  
**ron and hermione, with no clue what's going on:** EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL  
**tom, improvising:** voldemort had a piece of my soul in him from when i was a baby and that was me stealing it back

More reviews mean more funny omakes in the author notes ;)


	3. Consequences of Your Actions

A/N:

Who knew coming back from the dead could be so complicated? They really ought to issue an instruction manual for these circumstances, because it's simply no fun to run around and face the consequences of your actions.

Alternatively titled: "Apparating Away From Your Problems as Fast as You Can"

Some parts of this chapter were taken verbatim from Harry Potter by JK Rowling.

* * *

_**CHAPTER TWO  
**_

_**Getting Hit in the Face with the Consequences of Your Actions  
**_

* * *

Awareness seemed to come slowly at first, trickling through his ears and into his brain. Then all at once, the vibrancy of the world flooded back into his senses. Having learned his lesson from his previous gander into the land of unconsciousness, he kept his body as still as he could, carefully modulating the rhythm of his breathing.

He took stock of his surroundings. The full-body aching that had been so insistent earlier had faded to a manageable nuisance. He was resting atop something soft and cushioned— a bed? But the smells were unfamiliar, and he was loathe to let his guard down now after having come so far.

Having been reunited with the two senses of scent and touch, he allowed his focus to expand yet further. Noises echoed strangely from far away, as though he was encased in a watery bubble that muffled everything but his immediate environment. Then, after a moment, he could at last distinguish the distant sounds: people talking quietly to one another, the bang-slosh of drinks hitting wood, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter.

He allowed his eyes to open. Everything was blurry. Blinking and rubbing his eyes did nothing to fix this.

Anxiously, he twisted around, trying to make sense of the room he was in. His eyes fell upon the bedside table, where a few recognizable forms rested upon the wood grain. Reaching out a hand, he picked up the familiar pair of black framed glasses and slid them onto his face. The motion of it felt habitual; the thought process behind it did not.

The remainder of the room cleared up. His vision was now restored. There were two wands resting on the tabletop: one of hawthorn and one of elder.

He sat up too quickly, then, and the room spun. When he was sure that he would not pass out from further movement, he swung his legs out over the side of the bed and picked up the two wands. His wands. He tucked them awkwardly into the pocket of his jeans as he stood.

There was a window in the room. Slivers of sunlight still shone through around the edges, like the thick dark curtains covering them had been hastily pulled shut. He left the window alone and instead tried to recall if there were any other possessions that he had forgotten.

The Cloak had been folded neatly and draped over the back of a chair. He moved to grab that too, and in doing so caught sight of his reflection in the vanity.

Harry Potter stared back at him.

Feeling faint again, he stumbled backwards without thinking. The back of his legs hit the bed and he sat down, hard.

A hand reached up to brush away the fringe of hair—

The scar was still there. But it looked less… angry, somehow. The perpetual inflammation was gone.

His heartbeat was frantic, now. Staring like a caged animal at the mirror, he stood up a second time. He was trembling from head to toe, abruptly terrified that the reflection would suddenly draw its wand and attack him.

There was no time to think, no time to consider the consequences. Tom Riddle grabbed the Cloak of Invisibility and Disapparated, the loud crack of his escape indistinguishable from the cries of celebration that continued at the bar below.

* * *

There was the familiar sensation of being _ squeezed _ as the world rematerialized around him. Or, more aptly, he rematerialized into the world.

Looking around, he realized that he'd Apparated without any clear destination in mind. He was incredibly lucky he'd not splinched himself. There had been no thought spared on 'D' for Destination, let alone any consideration for the appropriate amounts of Determination and Deliberation that were meant to follow.

He rotated a half-circle slowly, trying to place the landmarks, his body mostly still rooted in place. Taking in what he could see, he attempted to connect it with his somewhat disjointed memory. It was with a start that he recognized the neighbourhood: Godric's Hollow.

Turning around fully, he was confronted with a sight so surreal that he fell still for a while, unable to reconcile it. He was seeing and not-seeing the small space of reality that currently existed before him. This landmark flickered between existence and non-existence in his most recent memories of this hallowed place.

The statue of the Potter family, all three of those figures now deceased by his own actions, burned itself into his mind. Two young parents and their infant child.

_ What was he doing here? _

He toppled over his own feet suddenly, landing with a harsh smack on the pavement. He'd been backing away from the memorial without realizing, moving faster than his own feet could carry him.

Hands smarting, he pushed himself upright just as quickly. People in the village square were staring at him. Avoiding eye contact, he took off as hastily as he could without looking ridiculous, willing his own idiotic embarrassment to fade.

He moved stiffly, still no destination or plan in mind. Only a searing desire to place himself as far as physically possible from that statue. He kept his head down, only glancing up occasionally to ensure he wasn't going to collide with anything.

A street caught his attention. His legs carried him along, following the instinct before he had the forethought to question it. He turned blindly down the residential lane, down the path that split off from the square.

When his feet finally seemed content with stillness a strange apprehension returned to him, creeping up against him, and he looked up.

Most of the cottage was still standing. Though most of what remained was now covered entirely by dark ivy. His eyes sought the right side of the top floor; the nursery that had been blown apart by a backfired curse.

Looking at it critically, as objectively as an outsider would have, he thought that a good stiff wind could probably knock the entire thing over if it wasn't for the magic keeping it preserved.

Harry had only ever seen the Potter's Cottage in its damaged, desecrated state. Lord Voldemort only knew of what it looked like in the dead of night, shadowed by the unseen spirits of All Hallow's Eve.

He willed himself forward.

The fence that surrounded the desolate cottage gave him pause. The hedges were overgrown and thorny. His hand reached out and, upon touching the fence, a sign rose from the ground.

Retrieving the hawthorn wand awkwardly from his back pocket—_he really ought to get a proper holster for that_—he aimed carefully at sign and whispered, "_Lumos_."

_On this spot, on the night of 31 October 1981, _ _Lily and James Potter lost their lives. _ _Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard _ _ever to have survived the Killing Curse. _ _This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left _ _in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters _ _and as a reminder of the violence _ _that tore apart their family. _

The smattering of engraved messages beneath the memorial sign glittered under his wandlight. He wondered how many more messages would be left for Harry, now that the war was over. Now that Harry was—

Shaking his head vigorously to clear his thoughts, he stowed the hawthorn wand away once more. Took a few steps away from the fence. Looked up and down both ends of the street to see if there were any non-Muggles who would be able to see him.

He had to know what lay inside the house, he had to see for himself. Possessed by the thought of it, he eyed the distance between himself and the fence and tried to judge the best angle. With a short running start, he catapulted himself over the fence.

As he stood in the overgrown garden, trying to detangle himself from a particularly persistent thorn, it occurred to him that he was rather… exposed. He ought to be trying a little harder to disguise his whereabouts. He fought free of the hedge, and shook out the Invisibility Cloak. With a practiced gesture, he threw it around himself.

He followed the little pathway that led to the stoop, his apprehension building. He just knew that he needed to go inside. Everything else could wait.

The side door swung open before he had even thought to try _ Alohomora_.

Darkness greeted him from within. The house welcoming him inside felt wrong. He was… he was, as far as these wards were concerned, Harry James Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived, returning home at last. Guilt washed over him, but he let the emotion flow quickly, shutting off that avenue before it could consume him.

His feet carried him forward once more. Too quickly, though, as seventeen years of dust and disuse assaulted his sinuses. He began to cough violently, and in his weakened state it felt extraordinarily painful. He had, once again, forgotten how to breathe properly.

He backed up into the entryway again, not quite passing the threshold. He pulled out the hawthorn wand once more. From where it rested in his trouser pocket, the Elder Wand hummed, almost patiently. He ignored it. His lungs were still burning slightly with the exertion of coughing.

Raising the hawthorn wand, he cast as many cleaning charms as he could think of. Blast after colourful blast lit up the tiny hallway, the one that would lead into the Potter home. Finally, after deciding he had done an adequate job and could stall no longer, he lowered his wand arm and readied himself to venture further into the house.

Then the memory rose, unbidden and unwanted. Characters began moving about, as they had on Halloween, like he was in a Pensieve and he was watching a play unfold. Flickering shapes of figures long dead drifted across the floor.

A part of his subconscious began a helpful narration.

Like, _ here is where Voldemort blasted through the door_, and _ here is where James Potter charged at Voldemort, no wand in his hand, possessed only with pure determination to save his family_.

_ This, here, the spot on the floor where you left James Potter's dead body. _

He stumbled up the stairs, following the memory-Voldemort that only he could see. _ Here is where Voldemort glided up the stairs, with no thoughts other than the pursuit of his prey. _

_ You see there, in that doorway? That is where Lily Potter had wedged a chair under the knob_, the voice continued, disgusted, its storytelling becoming more animated. _ As if that would slow Voldemort for more than the mere seconds it took to blast the door open. As though that would save her or her baby from the Dark Lord. But she was ready to beg for her son's life, and Voldemort would humour her and listen to her pleading, just this once, because Snape had asked_—

Here the memory faded, and reality returned. He was not facing the memory-nursery of years ago. The current stage was incomplete; there was no screaming baby and no fiercely protective mother to fill the space now occupied by the gaping hole in the wall.

The black void hurt to look at. He turned his head aside, angling his body away— and came face to face with the hall mirror. Once again the visage of Harry Potter assaulted him. His eyes saw green, and that gaze deftly filled in the remainder of the nursery exactly as it had unraveled on Halloween.

_ "Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!" _

And

_ "Stand aside you silly girl… stand aside now." _

And

_ Lily Potter screamed before the Killing Curse consumed her. Her dark red hair splayed around her head, framing her pale face and glassy green eyes. And then the Dark Lord laughed, his voice high and cold and cruel_—

He blinked, horrified, and that act severed him from the very green eyes in the mirror, from that terrible memory. The dichotomy between the vision in front of him and the vision of the past in his mind's eye threatened to tear him in two. Averting his gaze, he attempted to regain a modicum of control over himself.

Just a bit to the left, in his peripheral vision, he could make out Harry's profile. The saviour of the wizarding world, who had, only hours ago, given his life to defy Voldemort for the final time.

Everyone in the courtyard had seen Harry Potter defeat Lord Voldemort. Everyone in the courtyard had seen Harry Potter alive and triumphant. There was no reason at all to think that the mind inside Harry Potter's body was not, in fact, Harry Potter's.

He wanted to close his eyes.

He wanted to make all of it go away.

A moment passed, a period of time that could have been a second, or a year, or perhaps no time at all. A trembling hand reached up, then stopped, just shy of touching the mirror. He stood, his face still not quite directly looking at the reflection, his body frozen.

Ripping his mind from its rictus, he whirled away, leaving the mirror behind him. He wanted to mourn but it felt wrong; he had to take action in some other way.

He crept as close to the edge of cottage as he dared. Perhaps, if he got close enough to where it had happened, to where everything had gone wrong, he'd be able to stop it, to save Harry from the horrors that would come next.

Determined to follow the story from its broken beginning to its bitter end, he fell into Harry's memories. Allowed himself to wander the previously forbidden—now haunted—corridors. Opening the doors, unlocking the cupboards, lifting up the trunk lids. He searched for what came after, for what he was missing. For that dividing point in his life, which had changed the course of the world on that very night.

Harry meeting Hagrid for the first time. Harry on the Hogwarts Express with Ron and Hermione. Harry fending off a hundred Dementors at once, filled with hope. Harry in his element, all his senses alive, streaking across the Quidditch pitch on his Firebolt.

—_you will never_—

He spent some time there. Again, the period of it was indeterminate. At some point he had fallen to his knees, unthinking, unfeeling.

Harry watching Sirius fall through the Veil. Harry trapped in the cave, with the lake full of Inferi. Harry walking into the Forbidden Forest, prepared to die for those he loved.

He was a passive viewer of Harry's life. The life he watched was familiar to him, yet also so incredibly distant. He did not think he would have lived Harry's life half as well. He would not have done it justice.

So many pieces of Harry he could not comprehend: his courage, his empathy, his heart.

—_know love or friendship_—

Grief overwhelmed him. Sheer, unfathomable feelings washed through his entire being, and he found he could no longer remain here, kneeling on the floor of the nursery.

He could not remember how to keep his heart beating or his lungs breathing and he had to leave, had to get out of this house, before the emotions inside him exploded and killed him.

—_and I feel sorry for you_—

Pain twisted inside of him as he stood on shaking legs.

He felt so small, so incredibly worthless. He could no longer open his eyes; he thought that he didn't know how to. He tried to swallow convulsively, but the effort was futile. His hand was scratching desperately at his shirt collar, the nails drawing blood, as his entire body swayed.

Something was choking him. The air in the room, perhaps. Or the reflection in the mirror. He didn't want to think about the reflection in the mirror anymore.

Blind with panic and anxiety, he knew he had to get away. It seemed he had no control over his body, so he channelled the remainder of his mental focus on one thing: Apparating away.

* * *

His landing was less than ideal. While most of his mind was still caught in turmoil, a small detached part of him was truly concerned that he was going to splinch something important if he didn't stop Apparating recklessly. He stumbled half a step before straightening.

His surroundings were, for the third time today, not immediately familiar to him. Before him stood a perfectly boring looking house that proudly declared itself to be Number 4, Privet Drive. The curtains were drawn shut, and the lawn was only slightly overgrown. Yet somehow, this house felt less like home than the cottage at Godric's Hollow. This realization resonated within him, though he tried to ignore the sense of nostalgia and fear that resulted from it.

The front drive was empty. He was grateful for that much. He did not think he would be able to interact with anyone while he was still so deeply disturbed, so unaware of himself. But despite his inner conflict, he felt as though he had the right to be here, even if this abandoned, neglected house felt less like home than the ruined and desolate cottage.

In a fevered haze, he wandered up the walkway and unlocked the front door with his wand. There was something about this place that just screamed 'normality', from the spotless cream walls to the only slightly dusty carpeted floor. Not a thing out of place in this strange house. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

He moved through the house as though in a dream, his unfocused eyes unseeing of his surroundings, no matter how close to him they were.

Eventually, he ended up at the kitchen table, distractedly wondering how he had gotten himself in here, let alone seated. The kitchen was still fairly spotless. The pride and joy of the housewife: the gleaming, meticulous kitchen.

He allowed his thoughts to return inward, prepared for the onslaught of feelings and memories. The sooner to get them out of the way so he could regain a semblance of control. But his mind drifted away, back down the way he had come in, through the hall and past the cupboard under the stairs, finally processing what he had seen.

All the happy family pictures decorating the foyer and hallway, and not a single one of them included Harry. The letter slot where Harry had gotten his first contact from the Wizarding world.

Harry had lived in this house, had spent most of his childhood here. He tried to picture it, waking up everyday surrounded by these trappings of family. Always being separate, always being apart, despite all his efforts.

It reminded him of his own childhood, of sitting in the orphanage, always waiting to be adopted, always being looked over. Comparing the experiences felt too close, too real. Almost uncomfortably so.

Harry had coveted things, too. The toy soldiers, Dudley's discards, standing in their careful lines where no one else would see. The dog-eared comic books, the used, oversized clothing. All of the things that had never, ever been bought for Harry.

He thought back to the box of things he had taken from the other orphans, to his own cupboard, and felt a tinge of shame. The discomfort felt new to him; it was an emotion leftover from Harry's own sense of morality. He had not been kind, then. He could admit that well enough. But Harry and himself were still separate, they had to be, he could not afford to lose himself that much.

Harry had lived in a cupboard and he had lived in an orphanage. Regardless of the similarities he had to remember that. His jaw ached as he gritted his teeth, inviting the admonishment to come floating from deep within Harry's mind. The voice sounded oddly like Hermione Granger, and he willed his sanity to pull itself together. He was torn between the past and the present, between Harry and himself. Coming apart at the seams was not allowed. Losing control was not allowed.

Getting up, he walked back into the hall, stopping in just next to the door built into the staircase. The door was slightly ajar, as though the last person to open it had been in a rush. Peering inside, he saw a few pairs of shoes and a singular umbrella. He supposed a good deal of what had been inside here had already been carried away by the owners.

There was no sign that this cupboard had once housed a child. Harry's memories gained an edge of surrealism to them. His own distance from the experiences coupled with the lack of physical evidence for them. But he did feel like there ought to be something here, some kind of commemoration for the suffering Harry had gone through.

The orphanage that raised Tom Riddle had long since been burned to the ground without a scrap of remorse.

Then that bit of Harry's morality pinched at him again. It felt like he was being scolded. He closed the door firmly and continued to the living area. A jerk of the hawthorn wand slid the curtains open, allowing sunlight to bring visibility to the room.

The fireplace looked as innocuous as ever, as though it had never been touched by magic. But letters had once flown from its opening like a swarm of animated creatures. The sound of someone flipping the pages of dozens of books had once filled the air like a thick fog.

Harry had tried so hard to grab one of those letters, only to be denied, and that made him angry. He and Harry had been denied their heritage. The Heir of Slytherin and the Boy Who Lived. Two young wizards destined for greatness had both been treated like scum when they should have been living like gods.

Harry could have gone to Slytherin, he decided, were it not for his absolute sense of morality. That kind of thing tended to lean towards Gryffindor types. Stubborn, reckless idiots. Morals made you hesitate, and hesitation was weakness.

But it could have been _ interesting_, if Harry had been in Slytherin. If Harry had been the kind of boy he could befriend, mentor, recruit. There had been much about Harry that Voldemort had not known, had never bothered to find out.

Voldemort had marked Harry Potter as his equal, as the prophecy foretold. Yet then he had discarded that notion of equality, as though only prophecy had been responsible for it. Harry Potter, on the other hand, had learned of the prophecy and rose to the challenge. That was the difference, perhaps. That was the folly.

The orphanage had been no place to form interpersonal relationships. Slytherin was even less so suited, what with the single-minded ladder-climbing ambitions of Salazar's students. He had never been inclined to form close relationships, had never been interested.

Yet Harry Potter had sought relationships with his peers, sought acceptance from his friends. Friendship and bravery and love; things to ridicule. The things that Voldemort ridiculed freely and confidently, plotting how to use them against Harry whenever possible.

The nagging sense of being wrong persisted. He knew he was not Harry, that Harry's ideals and opinions were not his own. But the guilt continued. Harry's overwhelming sense of being responsible for everything in his immediate vicinity was downright contagious. It was horrible. Never in his life or Harry's life had he ever felt like this. Never before had he felt such an intimate and personal connection with someone.

He was angry— he wished— he missed—

"Harry?"

Nearly jumping out of his skin, he swung to face the newcomer, drawing the hawthorn wand—someone must have come looking for him, he had been an idiot to think he wouldn't be found eventually— but it was not Hermione, or Ron, or Ginny standing in the doorway.

"Dudley." Shock caused the name to slip out, and he quickly slipped the wand back into his pocket.

"Wasn't expecting you to be here," Dudley finally said. "They—the wizards—they told us it was safe to come back. But I saw you standing here from the outside."

"Yeah," he said, at a loss for better words.

"That bloke whose name they kept not saying is dead." Dudley nodded, as though to himself. "That's why you're back."

"Voldemort," he agreed.

"Right." Dudley shuffled into the living room. "Mum and Dad are outside, still in the car. But I don't think they'll be coming in any time soon."

He snorted despite himself, and Dudley grinned slightly in response.

Dudley moved to the couch and sat down, gesturing to the space across from him with a meaty hand.

The armchair was uncomfortably cozy as he settled into it. Silence fell over the both of them, but Dudley seemed content to let it go on, for he had never been the talkative type.

"What about your friends?" Dudley asked, after a short while had passed, like he was suddenly remembering his manners. "Are they all… all good?"

It startled him to realize he wasn't exactly sure of the answer. He had not seen anyone since passing out and then waking up in the Hog's Head Inn. "They're alright, I reckon. As good as anyone can be after a war."

Dudley sobered at the word 'war', nodding absently again. Then his eyes carefully focused, making eye contact that was difficult to avoid without being suspicious. "Are you alright, Harry?"

Was he alright? Hearing Dudley ask after his well-being was certainly something new, to say the least. He felt that on those grounds alone he ought to be allowed to say that no, things were not alright and he was not alright and that that was a stupid question to ask someone who had just gotten out of a war.

"It's hard to explain," he began, trying to think what Harry would say if he were the one having this conversation with his cousin. "Voldemort is dead. People have already started celebrating but… but it doesn't feel real. Like I'm just dreaming and I'm going to wake up and the world will be back to the way it was."

Dudley grunted. "It's like in the movies. The war hero comes back, but he can't forget about it. He's just living it over and over again all the time. And he's all jumpy about it but he's still really good at shooting and war things. So he keeps getting into more trouble, because he still wants to help people, but can't find a way to that isn't fighting."

This statement was, most likely, not only the longest speech anyone had ever heard from Dudley Dursley, but also the wisest thing he had ever said to anyone at all in his entire history as a human being. It was almost impressive, like a dog finally learning to bring the stick _ back _ after having excitedly run off to go fetch it.

"That actually sounds pretty accurate," he admitted. It did sound like Harry. Dudley's idea of Harry, the action movie protagonist, sounded like Harry.

"So is that what you're going to go do?" Dudley asked, sounding genuinely interested. "Go looking for more Volde-things?"

Would Harry go looking for more Dark Lords to vanish? He tried to picture what his mental-model of Harry would do. It was a frustrating exercise, because he knew he ought to know how Harry thought. He had all of Harry's memories to draw upon. But how he saw Harry wasn't the same as how other people saw Harry.

That was, he realized, the problem. He needed to talk to more people who knew Harry. Then he could create the proper mental-model of behaviour.

He would keep the clear division between what was Harry and what was Not-Harry in his mind. And then, assured of his own unbiased decisions, he could figure out what to do from there. But he could not continue that way he was now, constantly sucked into his own brain and mindlessly doing this or that.

"I'm going to take a break and figure out what I want," he answered. That was the truth.

Dudley nodded for the third time, like an action figure that only had the same three catchphrases it would cycle through. Evidently that one burst of intelligence had been a singular event and neither of them should rely on it happening again.

He stood up and offered Dudley his hand, just like Harry had all that long while ago.

Faced with something familiar, Dudley stood and mimicked the motion. They shook hands amicably.

"Keep in touch if you like? Just so I know you're not dead or anything," Dudley said quietly. "I'll be off to uni soon. You can send… send letters with your owl or however."

Another pang as he remembered that Hedwig was dead. He forced it down, bundled it up, and locked it in a trunk. "Yeah," he said, breathing a little more easily now. "Maybe I'll do that." His hand reached up to push his fringe of unruly hair back. The motion was practiced, very natural.

As soon as he Apparated back to the Hog's Head, he would be Harry Potter.

He would be Harry Potter because he had no other choice, because if they learned who he really was they would hunt him down and kill him.

He would be living as Harry Potter, the Man Who Won, the great saviour of Wizarding Britain. Harry had sacrificed himself for his friends, for his family, and for the fragment of soul that had once belonged to a whole Tom Riddle. So he would have to do his best by that sacrifice, to honour it, because that was what they would expect him, Harry Potter, to do.

It wouldn't do to cause suspicion, he rationalized firmly. It made the most sense to play along with the charade for as long as possible. There was the model Gryffindor, the rakish hero, the empathetic friend: Harry Potter. That was the role he had been tasked to play, the mask he was now going to wear.

Harry was gone, Voldemort was gone, and now he, Tom Riddle, had to pick up the pieces and begin again.

* * *

A/N:

omake:

**tom, sobbing at the potters' graves, tormented by the fact that he's the only one who knows that harry is dead:** where did my SOULMATE GO  
**luna, appearing from nowhere:** SO U ADMIT IT  
**tom:** what  
**luna:** oh, are we not at that point in the story yet  
**luna:** i have a really hard time with remembering that others experience time in a linear fashion  
**luna:** so sometimes i just say things that don't make sense yet  
**tom, scuttling backwards as fast as he can like a crab:** uh huh uh huh i just have a thing now  
**luna, shouting after him:** acknowledgement is the first step to acceptance!

Leave us love in the reviews xoxo Amanda and Hannah


	4. I Heart Harry Potter

A/N:

Alternative chapter title: Golly we're so happy Harry Potter lived and Voldemort died :)

Multiple POVs in this chapter; please pay attention to the heading names lest you get confused!

A tiny portion of this chapter is from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling.

* * *

_**CHAPTER THREE**_

_**I Heart Harry Potter  
**_

* * *

_**Neville**_

Hermione was worrying. Or, more accurately, she was _still _worrying, as Neville doubted she'd so much as given pause to worrying since Harry had decided to Apparate his way out of Hogsmeade.

Neville, who had a better idea of what it was like to be a tragically burdened hero after the Seventh Year of Terror he'd spent at Hogwarts, had a glass half-full of Firewhiskey on the table and no plans to get up and do anything for the next three hours at least. He picked up his glass and examined it closely, deciding whether he should down it and order another, or if he should be sensible and continue drinking it slowly.

There were still people moving about, but less so than there had been a few hours ago. Most of the students, Hogsmeade residents, and miscellaneous Order members had other places to be, respectively.

The organized relief effort, on the whole, was going pretty well. With the power of Hermione Granger's encyclopedic knowledge of everything, and Ron Weasley's occasional strategic input, McGonagall had been able to direct most everyone at Hogwarts to where they needed to be.

Hermione, somehow up to her eyeballs in books already, was radiating an intense aura of stress that served to keep everyone except Ron, himself, Ginny, and Luna away from her.

"He'll come back around," Ron said, for possibly the dozenth time in the last fifteen minutes. "Don't worry," he added, as though perhaps this time the reassurance would sink in and work.

"I know," Hermione huffed, in only the way that Hermione could say those two words.

Luna was resting her head on Ginny's shoulder, seeming pensive. "He'll be back once he figures out what he wants to do," she said.

That sounded about as logical as anything else that had happened. The strange white bolt of magic that had emerged from the collision of Harry and Voldemort's magic had left absolutely no residue behind. Voldemort's body was physically unscathed and in perfect health aside from being as dead as a doornail.

Harry had been fine, too, when they'd cast diagnostic spells on him. Just unconscious, perhaps from the drain of expending too much magic at once. So they had moved him to the Hog's Head, since quite a few others had wanted to celebrate, and they had been reasonably sure Harry didn't want to wake up in the Hospital Wing.

It was Hermione who had been standing guard, so to speak, outside the door when Harry had Disapparated with a resounding crack. She was a little annoyed at herself, Neville could tell.

Currently, she was trying to figure out just what had happened during that final duel between Harry and Voldemort, perhaps to convince herself that if there was no reason to suspect adverse side effects, she could be forgiven for letting Harry slip away. Not that anyone here actually blamed her for that, other than Hermione herself.

None of their Patronuses had been able to find him, which did give them valid reason to be worried. But Harry was Harry, and he had his Invisibility Cloak, which meant it was possible that he was simply hidden away.

Neville was still absently watching the condensation gather around the edges of his glass, having not made a decision regarding whether to down its contents yet, when there was a loud crack a distance away, causing them all to jump.

He sighed, put down his glass, and vanished the Firewhiskey that he managed to spill all over himself.

"It's Harry," said Luna, and no one questioned her. They all stood and made their way out of the pub in a rush.

Harry was standing there, hair dishevelled as usual, looking a little unsure of himself.

Hermione immediately tackled him in a hug, whacking him a bit with the book she had been holding. It sounded to Neville like she was trying to scold him, and failing rather miserably at it as her voice was increasingly overwhelmed by tears.

Ron, standing back a pace or so, waited for his turn, so when Hermione released Harry at last he could pull his best mate in for a quick embrace.

"You're a bloody idiot," said Ron.

Harry grimaced at that, but nodded his head anyways.

Ginny was next, pulling Harry in for a hug and burying her face into his neck. Harry touched her shoulder tentatively, then went to tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear. "I'm mad at you," Ginny said audibly. "For running off and almost dying."

Neville clapped Harry on the back before wrestling him into a hug. "Get used to the hugging," Neville told him as he pulled back. "There's a queue for them."

Luna drifted up next, latching her arms around Harry's torso. She didn't say anything, though, which was unusual for Luna. Harry hugged her back awkwardly.

"Where—" Harry's voice had a rough start to it. He coughed to clear it, then tried again. "Where's everyone else?"

Hermione spoke first. "McGonagall is organizing the relief effort from Hogwarts, and coordinating things with Kingsley, who is at the Ministry. They cleared St. Mungo's two hours ago; we sent all the injured people… sent them there." Neville completed the thought in his mind: and sent the bodies, too.

Harry nodded again, like this made sense to him. "Okay. Good."

"Mum and dad are still…" Ron looked tired, dark circles prominent under his eyes. He finished quietly, "We can go see them later."

The awkward moment was interrupted by the sound of Harry's stomach rumbling. Harry looked horrified at himself.

"You need to eat," Hermione fussed immediately, moving to grip Harry's forearm and bustle him back into the pub. "You're suffering magical exhaustion, and you nearly died, and you should be checked out by a Healer—"

"I'm fine, Hermione," Harry said automatically, though he allowed himself to be dragged through the doorway and manhandled into a chair.

Hermione pestered Aberforth into giving up a plate of food and a bowl of soup, which she then placed rather pointedly in front of Harry. She and Ron, in perfect synchrony, sat down across from Harry and stared at him, waiting.

"I know it's been a long day, but really, Harry, you have to eat something." Hermione pushed the plate towards him.

Harry looked between the two of them, still not eating, mild confusion flickering across his face. He had his hand positioned oddly over his stomach. Neville had enough time to wonder if Harry was feeling ill before Harry picked up the spoon and took a large gulp of soup.

Then another gulp. And another. And then he was picking up the bowl and draining it before moving on to his plate of bangers and mash.

Ron looked about to say something, opening his mouth and then closing it. Then he said, in an undertone to Hermione, "Blimey, it's like he forgot how to be a _person_."

Harry said loudly, "I'm hungry, not deaf."

Next to Neville, Ginny was trying and failing to hide her amused expression.

Luna filled a glass with Aguamenti, which she handed to Harry, who drank half of it without pause for breath.

The group seemed to relax all at once, sliding once again into easy friendship and camaraderie. Neville picked up his glass and downed it. There would be time to mourn later. Right now, he simply wanted to enjoy a few moments of peace with his friends.

* * *

_**Ron**_

Hermione wanted to go talk to the portrait of Dumbledore.

Ron didn't really care one way or another. He was tired, and enough had happened today to last an entire lifetime. But if Hermione wanted to go, maybe he should go with her.

But Harry, he could tell, was reluctant, and Ron didn't blame him. Harry's hair was mussed and half-filthy, and his eyes were rimmed red like he'd been crying.

Harry and Hermione went back and forth a little on the subject of visiting the portrait while Ron listened and carefully avoided any implication of a preference.

The actual verbal portion of the conversation lasted about twenty seconds, and finished with Hermione breaking their prolonged eye contact, huffing—"Alright. I'll go by myself"—and standing up.

Moving clumsily, Ron stood up as well, and Hermione turned to him. She was just as tired as they all were, he knew. But even with the cuts and the dirt and the massive tangle of her bushy hair, she was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. The left side of her mouth quirked up in a half-smile, as though she was guessing at his thoughts.

Ron grinned wearily back at her, and she shook her head at him just a bit, that little mysterious smile still sitting on the corner of her mouth. The mouth he'd kissed just a few hours earlier.

Hermione slid her gaze sideways, to where Harry was now pushing a tiny amount of mashed potatoes around on his plate. "I'll be back," she said to him, meaning _look after Harry_, and that was that. Ron sat back down.

Ariana's portrait moved to accommodate Hermione as she went to follow the pathway back into Hogwarts. Ron watched until the painting swung shut, then turned his attention back to the group.

Across the table, Neville and Luna were in deep conversation. They were going to go find her father. Ginny was nodding along as she listened, her eyes blinking sluggishly.

Harry didn't seem to be paying much attention to anything, as occupied as he was with his potatoes. But Ron knew that sometimes Harry didn't feel like talking. Sometimes he just liked to brood; that was the difference between them. Ron's bouts of moodiness tended to make themselves known immediately, loudly if not viciously. Harry was more like a sleeping dragon in that if you poked and prodded him enough, he would finally snap at you and burn you to a crisp.

But this was different, it felt different, and no wonder it did because seven years had led them here, to this very day, and Voldemort was finally dead. People were celebrating. It was all very surreal, and likely more so for Harry, whose entire life had been shaped around the fulfillment of Trelawney's prophecy.

"Ron?" Harry's quiet voice startled him.

"Yeah?" Ron responded, just as softly.

Behind Harry, Ginny had fallen asleep, her head resting on top of her forearms.

"I—I'm—" Harry fumbled for the right words. "I don't feel relieved."

Ron allowed that to stew as he thought it over. "It doesn't feel like it's really over, does it?"

"I mean," Harry said quickly, his eyes darting up to look at Ron before dropping back to his potatoes. "It should, shouldn't it? It should feel like it's over."

Ron made a non-committal noise in response. Was there a right way to feel about this sort of thing?

"Voldemort is dead," Harry added, in a stilted tone, like he couldn't believe it either.

"He's dead," Ron agreed, and was a little surprised as that fact sunk in.

A fierce fondness that rose up in him as he looked at Harry. Harry was alive to brood and have messy hair and be nagged at to eat food. Relief washed over Ron a second time as he drank in the sight of his best mate. Harry was alive, and whatever other struggles that came from Voldemort dying were something that could be worked through.

He reached over and gave Harry's forearm a gentle squeeze. Harry twitched at the physical contact, but he didn't pull away.

"Whatever happens," he said to Harry, "we'll face it. Y'know, together." Ron hoped his expression was radiating reassurance and solemnity. Harry had to know by now that wherever he went, Ron and Hermione would follow.

Harry blew out a deep, shaky breath, like he'd been holding it in this entire time. His answering smile was only a little brittle, his voice only a little numb as he spoke: "Thanks, Ron."

Ron released Harry's forearm and sat back in his chair, reassured his Harry-comforting was at least a mild success.

Harry's gaze wandered over to the other table, to where Neville and Luna were in the midst of getting ready to leave. Neville wordlessly conjured a blanket and draped it over Ginny, who was still asleep.

Ron waved at them. Luna waved back, her expression gentle. She and Neville left the Hog's Head together, leaving Ron, Harry, and Ginny alone in the pub. Alone aside from Aberforth, at any rate, who was rubbing at a dirty glass with a dirty cloth as though it was any other random afternoon.

Harry finally scooped and swallowed his last remaining portion of potatoes, then set his fork down neatly on the plate. The clink of metal against porcelain echoed softly into the quiet of the near-empty pub.

_What do we do now? _

The question hung between he and Harry, unspoken but heavy.

Ron tried to force his sluggish brain to think, to make a plan. What needed to be done and who could do it. Neville was with Luna. Hermione was still in the castle. Ginny was here, asleep. Harry was… going back and forth between being blankly unresponsive and somewhat present; he was probably going to need some proper space to brood soon.

Glancing at the books Hermione had left scattered about the bar, Ron stood up and began to collect them. A reasonable next step would be to meet back up with Hermione. By the time they got there she ought to be done speaking with Dumbledore's portrait.

He plodded a slow circuit around the bar, collecting the books as he went. The end of his journey put him right next to Ginny, as planned. He woke her up.

Ginny jumped with a snarl, wand immediately in hand as her eyes focused on him sharply. Ron couldn't help it—he flinched.

Her expression sobered, then crumpled. "Sorry."

Ron didn't like thinking about what had happened at Hogwarts to give his little sister such reflexes. "S'fine," Ron said quickly.

Harry hovered a distance away, behind Ron's shoulder. "I can carry some of those," Harry offered, after a pause had developed.

Ron blinked down at the books he was holding, then jerked into motion. "Yeah, here." He handed a few to Harry. "Hermione was trying to figure out what happened. You know, in the Great Hall." _Where you killed Voldemort. _

Harry grimaced, but nodded.

"We're going back to Hogwarts?" Ginny asked, catching on.

"Just to meet with Hermione," Ron told her, meeting her steady gaze with his own.

She looked at Harry, then back at Ron. "Alright." Ginny pulled the blanket around her shoulders closer, like a cloak, and pushed back in her chair. "Let's go."

They bid Aberforth farewell and set off down the tunnel.

"D'you think he'll be alright?" Ron asked quietly.

"Aberforth? He says he likes it when it's quiet," Ginny began, still blinking the exhaustion from her eyes. "Less of us noisy brats causing a ruckus, he says. But I think he does prefer company. Can't be much fun running a pub alone."

Ron frowned. "Should we have asked him if he wanted to come with us?"

Ginny considered, then shook her head. "He's stubborn," she said. "Like this one here," she tilted her head towards Harry. "You have to drag him in by the leash."

"I'm not that bad," Harry protested, but it was half hearted.

"Maybe check on him later, then," Ron said, bringing the conversation back to the topic at hand. "I'd hate to think of him all shut up in the pub by himself after everything that's gone on."

Ginny nodded in agreement, and the three of them continued on.

* * *

_**Hermione**_

The stone gargoyle was staring at her as she stumbled down the final steps of the staircase, the one that led up to the headmaster's office. The headmistress' office, Hermione corrected herself distractedly. Professor McGonagall was practically Headmistress now.

The door behind her slid shut with a quiet rumble, and Hermione sat down hard on the stone floor, heedless of the scattered rubble around her.

She had gone up the turning staircase into the office. She had looked at the Pensieve, still glowing faintly in the late afternoon light, still swirling with Snape's silver memories. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore had been empty. She had gone to the Pensieve to satiate her own curiosity… Her own thrice damned curiosity.

She blinked tears back, anger welling up inside her. Harry had gone into the Forbidden Forest to die. That thought alone broke her heart, shattered it into splinters. Nothing could have prepared her for that, not even seven years of breaking all the rules, of constantly redefining right and wrong. Because even with right and wrong, there had always been a good side and a bad side.

Dumbledore had planned for Harry to submit to death, and what was infinitely worse was that Harry had actually_ gone and tried to do it_.

And Snape… Snape had been on their side after all, for whatever that was worth. For whatever years of bullying Harry and countless other students at Hogwarts was worth. Dumbledore had trusted Snape out of some twisted faith in the power of love.

Love alone was not enough to redeem someone, Hermione thought bitterly. Love could not bring back the dead, could not erase the nightmares of tragedy. Love could not bring back the years stolen from her childhood.

_Actions spoke louder than words_; a phrase Hermione had carried with her since childhood. A guide that she applied to her family, her friends, and her relationships. Actions defined who you were. There was no one else, no little angel and devil on your shoulders to tell you what your morals ought to be, what you ought to do.

If you did bad things for good reasons, they were still bad things, and you still had to be accountable for them. That was how Hermione saw it.

Dumbledore had done bad things for good reasons. For the greater good.

She felt foolish. Like some mental floor had finally fallen away, stripped from her without warning. Her childhood, what little remained of it, died a final, shuddering death. Every authority she had ever looked up to crumbled away. Every day she had hoped for a safety catch, for a plan of Dumbledore's that would save the day. A shining Phoenix swooping down to deliver tools into their waiting hands.

She had hoped and hoped, only to realize that now, when the end finally arrived, it had been Harry Potter alone in the forest with no friends by his side. Her best friend, only seventeen years old and prepared to die.

Her desire to cry battled fiercely with her desire to _not cry, _to not shed a single tear more for what could have been. These were the cards that they had been dealt with. This was the world she lived in, and she would pick herself up off its ground, ready to do what was needed of her. This was what she had learned how to do at Hogwarts.

Hermione got to her feet. She aimed her wand carefully at the bottom of her jeans and said, "_Tergeo_." Some of the dust and grime vanished from her legs and shoes. She brushed at her jumper out of habit, and a few bits knocked themselves loose.

She wondered at what to do next, her mind spinning with thoughts. She wasn't good at figuring out what to do next on her own.

It was her, Ron, and Harry. The three of them making plans together. Harry setting the direction, Ron outlining the strategy, her filling in the steps. She would cast the most complex spells, Ron watching her back, Harry wound up for when things inevitably went sideways.

She was their library, their fountain of knowledge, their researcher. Ron was their rock, their voice of common sense, their general. And Harry… he was their sun, their determination and willpower, their hero. He had borne that last title for so long, that burden of being the hero, and she worried at who he would be without it.

She and Ron may have lost their childhoods, but Harry had never had one to begin with.

This thought jolted her out of her reverie. She couldn't do anything to fix Harry's depressing lack of a childhood, but she would do what she could for his present and his future.

To do that, however, she had to find him.

Turning the corner, she heard the quiet murmur of heart achingly familiar voices drifting closer, so she hurried ahead to intercept them, glad that they had come to her. After learning what Dumbledore had intended for Harry, what Harry had intended for himself, she had to see Harry and hold him. She was struck with the need to hold his face with her hands, to reassure herself that he was real.

Ron and Ginny came into view first, with Harry lagging a step or two behind them. Hermione made a noise that did not have words, and started running headlong towards them.

Ginny, perceptive as ever, pulled Ron out of the way so Hermione could barrel past and fling herself into Harry's arms. Perhaps overdramatically so, but with what all they'd endured the last few days, she felt she was due some dramatics.

Harry wrapped an arm around her bushy hair and shoulders, the motion stiff. That made her sad all over again, because of course he was still in shock, and what was she thinking, overwhelming him without even asking first.

She cupped his face between her hands for a moment, and then let her arms drop. "Sorry, Harry," she sniffed, pulling back. "It's just— I looked at the Pensieve."

Harry's face shifted, like a shadow was falling over it. "It's alright, Hermione."

"Did you talk to Dumbledore?" Ron asked her.

"No." Hermione bit her lip. "He wasn't there when I first went in and after I got out of the Pensieve… I— I didn't want to. So I left."

Words returned to her, then, a ghostly echo: _you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter_… She didn't want to talk to Dumbledore. She wanted—she needed—to talk to Harry.

Ginny interjected, "Not to interrupt or anything but… Ron and I should really go." She looked between Harry and Hermione for a moment. "You could come with us, of course, but our parents…" she trailed off, swallowing.

"Right," Harry said, his words coming in starts and stops. "Yes. You should go. Be with your family. Hermione and I can..." he looked searchingly at Hermione. "We can go to the Gryffindor tower to wait. It'll be a safe a place as any."

"If you're sure," Ron said, reluctant.

"We're sure," Hermione said firmly, and gave both Ron and Ginny hugs.

"We'll have to use the Floo in the headmaster's office," Ginny said carefully.

Hermione grimaced. "I took the memories out of the Pensieve." She retrieved her little beaded purse and held it up. "I didn't want to leave them where anyone could just find it and stick their head in."

Harry wasn't looking at her when she glanced at him. His hands were stuffed into his jeans pockets, like he was attempting to be casual. She sighed as Ginny and Ron walked off.

"Let's walk," Hermione said to him, and started her usual purposeful stride in the direction of the Gryffindor tower. "Did anyone bother you on your way here?"

"I kept the Cloak on for most of it," Harry told her, already reaching into his pouch to retrieve it. The Cloak swung up and around, Harry vanishing behind it.

Hermione kept her breathing measured as she walked. Eight seconds in. Eight seconds held. Eight seconds out. Then repeat. By the time they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, she was suitably calm. However, the painting that was the entrance to the Gryffindor common room was empty.

"Is there still a password?" Hermione asked blankly.

Harry, having now removed his Cloak, stepped forwards, put his hand against the painting, and pushed. The painting swung inwards and they clambered into the common room.

A wave of deja-vu swept over her, reminding her of the previous thousand of times she had come through this way. She gently took Harry's hand in her own and guided him over to the coveted chairs by the fire.

She waved her wand to get a fire crackling before they sat down. They were going to have a good long conversation about what was acceptable behaviour. Going to die for your friends without even saying goodbye was not acceptable behaviour.

Hermione sat down in the armchair facing Harry and clasped their hands together for a moment before she sat back, sinking slightly into the chair cushions.

"You're alright?" she asked seriously, resisting the urge to wring her hands together.

Harry nodded slowly. "I'm good, Hermione. I don't think I'm hurt or anything. Just, you know, a bit tired."

"Good, that's good." She wasn't sure how to approach the topic just yet. Harry was stubborn at best and absolutely immovable at worst, especially when he got ideas into his head. "Listen, Harry. I don't know how you must have been feeling after you saw what was in the Pensieve… I honestly can't imagine it at all. We all thought that Dumbledore knew what he was doing." She winced then, as Ron's voice came back to her.

_Ron's gaze was black fire as he spoke, his words harsh and bitter, "I just thought after all this time we would have actually achieved something! I thought you knew what you were doing! I thought Dumbledore would've told you something worthwhile! I thought you had a plan!" _

"He didn't, didn't he?" Harry bit out. "He always just thought he knew what was best for everyone."

"Yes, well." Hermione took a deep breath. "I just wanted to make sure you know what he asked of you wasn't acceptable, Harry."

Harry stared at her.

"He should not have asked you to die for us. And you should not have done it, Harry, I don't care if you thought there wasn't any other way you should have _told us_—" She was going too fast, she wasn't breathing properly anymore, so she cut herself off and made a noise like a choked sob. Harry looked alarmed at that, his hand reaching out as though he was unsure if he ought to be comforting her or not.

Hermione forced herself to take a deep breath and continued on, "We don't want you to walk off into dangerous situations because you think you're protecting us. I don't want you risking your life because you think ours are somehow more important. You always have me, and Ron, and so many other people who care about you!

"And I know that it's all really over now, or at least I hope it is, so maybe I'm just being silly, but you aren't alone, Harry. No matter what happens, we're here with you, you know that. And I want you to promise me that you will never go off alone like that again without telling someone where you're going."

Harry was quiet as they gazed at each other, and Hermione was close to another tearful word vomit as she waited for his response.

"Alright," Harry said, after a moment, "I promise, Hermione. I won't go wandering off on my own into danger without telling someone."

"Thank you." Hermione gave him a shaky smile. "On a more cheerful topic, what do you plan to do next? I know we never really talked about life after Voldemort." They had never dared to hope that they had the option. "But now it's here so we have to figure it out."

Harry's expression shifted to that of a deer caught in the headlights. She wondered if this was how Professor McGonagall felt during career advice meetings. Then he seemed to shake it off and said, "I really don't know what I plan to do. There's just… so much out there that I just don't know anything about. I— what do you plan to do?"

She couldn't help but chuckle at this typical Harry response. "Well, I've thought that I should come back to Hogwarts in the fall to get my NEWTs first," Hermione said, going down her mental checklist, "And then I plan to make some real changes at the Ministry. I want to work in a department when I can expedite activism and raise more awareness. I was thinking of working with magical creatures, or perhaps directly in law where I could hopefully see a more immediate difference. But before all of that, I'll be spending most of this summer convincing Ron to sit NEWTs with me. And you of course, because I do think it'll be good for you, Harry."

Harry paused again. Hermione knew sometimes she tended to end up on the wordier end, regardless of if she was speaking or writing, so she was content to let Harry have a moment to think before responding.

"Speaking of Ron, what do you think Ginny is going to want to do?" Harry seemed very, very hesitant. "I haven't seen her all year, and a lot's changed between now and then."

Hermione had to wonder if this was simply his way of avoiding going back to school. But no, he wouldn't have picked such a serious topic just to divert her attention. He must really want to know what she thought.

"Well," she began, "I think the first thing you need to consider is what you want to do. You and Ginny have gone through a great many things together, but that's not the only important part of being in a relationship. I think... we're all at a point where we may not be sure of what we want anymore. A war has just ended, and a lot of things are going to change. I think you need to figure out what it is that you want before you worry about what it is that she wants. A relationship is a two-way street, after all."

They sat in comfortable silence while he pondered this.

"I just don't know what I want," Harry eventually said, somewhat desperately.

"Then that's your answer there, isn't it?" Hermione said gently, "If you're not certain you want to be with her right now, then I think you ought to tell her so. People do spur-of-the-moment things during a war—" Here she thought of Ron, of the two of them flinging themselves at each other until Harry interrupted them. "—myself included, I suppose. It's not wrong to take time to sort yourself out, and it'll be kinder on you both in the long run."

"Maybe you're right." Harry nodded slowly. "Next time I see her I'll have to talk to her." He blew out a gust of air, slumping back into the chair as he gazed at the fire. The golden-orange light flickered where it was reflected in his glasses. "I hope I don't mess it up. I never know what to say in these situations. I'd hate for her to be mad at me."

"Even if she was mad at first, I think Ginny would understand it was the right thing in the end. She'd rather have you be honest with her than drag out a relationship that could make you both unhappy." She let him think this over before adding, "And don't think that I've forgotten about your NEWTs, Harry Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes at her, but she recognized amusement as it passed over his features. "If you and Ron are both going to be here, then I think we all know that I'll be here, too." He was still holding her gaze, and there was fondness creeping into his tone. "Honestly, Hermione. Where else would I go?"

It was meant to be hypothetical, but she still wanted to go over and hug him again. Harry always had a place with them, and it was good that he knew it.

"I'm glad you've acknowledged that," Hermione said, sticking her nose in the air and sniffing in an exaggerated fashion. Then she relaxed her posture and let her gaze drift around the common room for the first time since they had sat down.

Upon closer inspection, this room had really been neglected since they'd been gone. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was a distinct change in the atmosphere here, like it was less homey, somehow. The usual cheer and warmth here had been slowly siphoned away, leaving behind a shell.

"Getting the school back in shape for the students to come back isn't going to be an easy task," Hermione said quietly.

Harry surveyed the room as he pulled out his wand. "We may as well get started," Harry said, rising out of his chair. "I doubt a single _tergeo _will do it, but it's worth a try."

Hermione wanted to interject that he really shouldn't just go about casting anything because he had passed out from _magical exhaustion_, but Harry was already stepping forward and waving his wand and incanting, "_Tergeo! _"

Immediately the room vanished under a flurry of motion. Dust rose from every possible surface: the flooring, the shelves and curtains, even from between the seat cushions.

Hermione frantically cast the Bubble Head charm on herself as the cloud of particles moved, swirling in the strangest patterns, like the debris was performing a kind of ritual dance. She looked at Harry, who was still holding his wand and was now trying to exercise some level of control. He was squinting through the mess of bits as he pointed his wand towards the center of the common room. The dust and dirt gathered together under his direction, forming a large spherical shape, before all of the debris disappeared entirely.

Lowering his wand, Harry immediately went into a coughing fit. Hermione, cancelling her charm, started to fuss. "Harry, you idiot! How did you overpower that so much?"

Harry was still coughing too hard to answer. Hermione transfigured one of the candlesticks on the side table into a glass and filled it with water. He took the glass from her and took small sips between the coughing. When Harry finally finished the water, he was recovered enough to speak.

"I didn't overpower it Hermione," he protested, but Hermione could swear that some of the surfaces around them looked _shiny_. "It just sort of happened. I didn't expect there to be so much dust, which is why I ended up coughing so much."

Hermione gasped without even really meaning to as her brain began firing off in multiple directions. "Oh! It must be related to your duel with Voldemort, somehow. Perhaps all the magic you expelled is returning at once? Or maybe some of his magical energy was transferred when your wands connected?"

"You'd have a better idea of what happened than me." Harry shrugged helplessly, tucking his wand away again. "I really don't know what's wrong with me."

Hermione eyed him sharply. Fixing Harry's strangled sense of self worth was truly a task that stretched well beyond defeating Voldemort. "There's nothing wrong with you! Your magic is just reacting to _something _that happened recently, and the easy conclusion is that it happened while you were duelling Voldemort, or in the immediate aftermath thereof. We will figure this out, and who knows, maybe it'll be a good thing."

She surveyed the now sparkling room, and said with some finality, "It was definitely a good thing for this room. One down, hundreds more to go."

* * *

A/N:

**hermione:** harry i just want to make sure that you know you're so important to us, and we love you, and that we would never ever want you to die for us, and we will always find a way to work around it together  
**tom:** oh, uh. thank you... hermione...

Author Misses Amanda and Hannah beg... implore... _invite..._ you to please leave a review!

example: "1000/10 would recommend this chapter"


	5. For All Your Party Planning Needs

A/N:

Trigger warning for gambling and quite a bit of alcohol consumption in this chapter.

We are back to Tom's POV for the foreseeable future!

* * *

_**CHAPTER FOUR  
**_

**_For All Your Party Planning Needs, Call Tom M. Riddle _**

* * *

Tom was sitting in one of the many oversized armchairs in the Gryffindor Common Room, attempting to relax. The chairs were ridiculously squashy, and he felt like the chair was doing its level best to swallow him whole each time he sat down.

After long weeks spent restoring the castle, he was beginning to find the cozy Gryffindor setting rather stifling. Or, perhaps, that minor discomfort was a result of his current situation.

He, Neville, Ron, and Hermione were all living together in the Gryffindor dorms during Hogwarts' reconstruction period. It was enough to drive anyone crazy. Tom felt as though he was being monitored at all hours of the day. It was, to some degree, simply paranoia. But that didn't quell the constant, lingering fear that someone was about to jump out at him and yell, "Ha! So you're _not_ really Harry Potter! You're secretly the Dark Lord Voldemort! And now we're going to kill you!"

Harry's friends were so _nice_. They were nice nearly all the time. It was like living with a pack of Hufflepuffs. Tom often worried that he was deliberately being led into a false sense of security. There was the occasional argument or bickering about petty things, but everyone seemed to take things in stride.

Hermione and Ron continued to dote on 'Harry', mainly out of concern that he had been talking even less than he usually did. Tom didn't know how to resolve this problem. Generally one needed to talk to other people to gather information, but Tom was loathe to have any conversations that might rouse suspicion. So instead he was forcibly subjected to mothering glances when they thought he wasn't looking, and third helpings of food dumped on his plate during mealtimes.

It wasn't his fault Harry was so small! Well, maybe it was a little bit his fault. But Dumbledore had been the one to actually send Harry to live with the Dursleys. And Dumbledore had forced Harry to _continue_ living with the Dursleys. Tom had nothing to do with that part of Harry's childhood. But the guilt still gnawed at him, banging against the door in Harry's mind that held memories of Privet Drive.

Tom groaned as he slouched down in his uncomfortable chair, rubbing at his temples. The sweltering summer heat was winding down as September 1st approached, but he still found himself longing for the cool environment of the Slytherin dungeons. Everything had always been nice and dark and quiet there.

While everyone had their own assigned tasks to carry out, he was usually the first one back for the day. Ever since his and Hermione's discovery of his 'overpowered' magic, he'd been frequently called on to do a lot of the heavy lifting around Hogwarts. He was now capable of doing things that would usually take several other wizards to accomplish. The downside of this was that after exhausting his magic, he was pretty much useless for anything other than basic charmswork for the rest of the day.

Today, on his way back to the dorms, he'd been struck by the sheer amount of progress they had made. The castle was really coming together, and there was a pleasant feeling of satisfaction at knowing he had been instrumental in the process. Hogwarts had always been important to him, and participating in its restoration seemed appropriate.

Such an occasion could even be a cause for celebration. While Harry wouldn't have ever gone out of his way to throw a celebration in his own honour, Tom's memories of Harry did tell him that it wouldn't be out of character for Harry to set up said celebration for his friends.

"Milley!" Tom called out into the empty room.

The little house-elf appeared with a pop. Her large floppy ears perked up upon seeing Tom. She asked eagerly, "How is I helping you today, Master Potter?"

Tom dug out a few galleons from the mokeskin pouch he still wore around his neck. "Here. Go to Aberforth at the Hog's Head and bring me as much Firewhiskey as you can purchase."

"Yes, Master Potter," Milley said, nodding her head before she disappeared with a 'pop'.

Tom surveyed the common room with a critical eye. Despite the enormous amount of cleaning Tom had subjected the room to, it was still in disarray. It reminded him of home cooked meals and the Weasleys. Clearly, it was designed for the comfort of people who were exhausted from a long day's work and wanted nothing more than to sit around and play Exploding Snap.

In other words, it was Gryffindor and boring. It was definitely not up to the standards that Tom required when celebrating his achievements. A Gryffindor's idea of a party was illegally acquired alcohol and more illegally acquired alcohol, as though getting drunk was the only reason to host a gathering.

A Slytherin's social gathering was much more sophisticated. There was a process that had to be followed for these sorts of events if you wanted them to be successful. You situated yourself in such a way as to be able to easily obtain information from unsuspecting drunkards. You furthered your way up the social hierarchy, establishing dominance over lesser beings by subtly slighting them in conversation.

He was quite thankful today had been less taxing than normal because doing everything the Muggle way would have involved physical labour, which was to be avoided at all costs.

Tom pulled out his wand, rearranging all of the furniture with a single, powerful sweep of magic. Then he took a moment to examine the result. The furniture was still unfortunately Gryffindor-esque, but Transfiguring all of the chairs and tables would take more time and magic than he wanted to bother expending. Changing the colours to silver and green would also likely be frowned upon.

Tom tapped his foot idly on the garish red carpeting, trying to think of what else was required for a proper gathering of trusted friends. Usually he had underlings to plan these things for him. Gatherings required people and alcohol and…

Oh yes, food. Food was also a necessity. Tom frowned as he recalled Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. But before he could regret forgetting to ask Milley to bring snacks, a different house-elf popped into the room.

The new elf began to arrange platters of pastries on a table off to the side. Then it vanished with another 'pop', only to reappear moments later with a handful of goblets and two pitchers full of non-alcoholic drinks. Upon inspection, Tom noted that the pitchers contained pumpkin juice and water, respectively.

As the unnamed house-elf was setting out napkins and plates, Milley reappeared with the alcohol. She was levitating a few small kegs of Firewhisky and a handle of clear, unidentifiable, alcohol. It looked like rather a lot to drink for only four people.

Tom had not expected this much alcohol, but he was glad it was here. The more intoxicated everyone got, the less likely they'd be to notice if he behaved oddly. Having to constantly monitor his own actions was more exhausting than all of heavy spellcasting he had to do. It would be easier if he could just blame all his bad decisions on alcohol like everyone else usually did.

Tom took the handle of clear alcohol and conjured a large bowl to pour it into. He added just enough pumpkin juice to make it palatable, then congratulated himself on a punch well made.

The house-elves finished their work, and Tom thanked them because Hermione would expect him to do it. Milley, who had grown used to being thanked, simply nodded and vanished. The other house-elf gave him an odd, uncomfortable look before following suit. Tom didn't care about that, so he instead set about making himself a plate of snacks and poured himself a glass of punch.

He was one drink in and halfway through setting up some music when Neville came in through the portrait hole.

Tom didn't recognize any of the radio channels, which was irritating. He frowned down at the wireless, thinking. Harry hadn't typically bothered with music, and the last time Tom had been able to play anything of his own choosing had been… a very long time ago. Tom fiddled with the knob on the radio until it was playing something that wasn't entirely offensive to his ears, then turned to greet Neville.

"Neville!" Tom called cheerfully, "Have a drink!"

"I see you've been busy in the," Neville glanced down at his watch, "twenty minutes you've been alone. What's all this about?"

Tom went to respond, but then Ron said, from somewhere behind Neville, "Oi, out of the way, Neville! You're blocking the entrance, and I can smell the food in there."

Neville finished stepping through, his expression long-suffering, followed closely by Ron and Hermione.

"I've just been thinking about how hard we've all been working lately. You know, to get everything ready in time for the students. So I decided that we all deserve a bit of a celebration," Tom finally managed to answer, the words coming out in a rush. Neville gave him a funny look, which Tom ignored because it was easier to.

Ron, his mouth already full of food, said, "I have to agree, mate. This is a brilliant idea!"

Hermione chastised him speaking with his mouth full, as she always did, but gave up rather quickly in favor of grabbing some food. House-elves were great, Tom decided. Two house-elves were the working equivalent of at least one Death Eater. Perhaps Harry had been on to something with his collection of house-elf friends.

"You should try the pumpkin juice," Tom suggested casually. He was only half-heartedly trying to keep the smirk out of his voice. Reaching over to pour a glass out, his hand missed the ladle twice before he managed to snag it and scoop a goblet full, which he then held out proudly to Hermione.

"What did you do to it?" Hermione asked suspiciously, giving the bowl of punch a concerned look, as though she expected it to jump out and grab her at any moment.

Neville lifted up the empty handle of alcohol Tom had forgotten to dispose of. "I think I can guess what he did," he said.

Hermione looked at the handle in Neville's hand, the glass already in Tom's hand, and then the bowl of punch in quick succession.

"Alright then," she said, shrugging as she went to pour herself a glass.

Ron made a mild sound of shock that Tom wholeheartedly agreed with. However, Tom didn't want to risk being hexed, so he took a long sip of his drink to avoid having to figure out how to react appropriately.

"What?" Hermione said, glaring at Ron. "Am I not allowed to have a little fun?"

"No, no, that's not it at all. I was just surprised that's all," Ron rushed to say.

Hermione took a sip of the punch and promptly gagged. "What is this? Harry?" she spluttered at him.

"Pumpkin juice and something that's likely very alcoholic," Tom answered promptly.

Hermione stared at him in absolute horror. Next to her, Ron was trying not to laugh at her and failing miserably.

Tom had no desire to watch Ron dig himself into an early grave, so he went to check on his Firewhiskey. It was all still sealed up. Tom frowned. It seemed he had neglected to tap a keg.

"Not to stop you from killing Ron," Tom said, not really caring if he had interrupted a lover's spat or not, "but if anyone wants Firewhiskey, they're going to have to tap the keg themselves." He nudged a keg with his foot. "I forgot to and now I don't feel like it," Tom concluded, somewhat petulantly.

Ron summoned a tap from his room and got one of the kegs started. A round was poured for everyone. Neville accepted a drink, too, and then they all settled into a circle on the floor by the fire.

Hermione, having rudely abandoned Tom's pumpkin juice punch, was looking very comfortable indeed now that she had a bit of Firewhiskey in her.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "I know just what we need to unwind properly." Tom, Ron, and Neville exchanged nervous looks with each other, unsure as to whether she was about to summon some book for a bit of 'light reading'.

Thankfully, all that came flying down the stairs was a simple deck of cards.

"Now," Hermione said primly, a sly smile spreading across her face. "Have you gentlemen ever played poker?"

Tom vaguely knew what poker was from his time spent in the Muggle world, so he thought he was justified in having a bad feeling about this idea. Ron and Neville, of course, had not heard of any such thing, and were unfortunately interested enough to try it. But Harry Potter was no coward, and Tom wasn't really either, so he hesitantly agreed to learn as well.

That, he later thought, was his first mistake of the night.

* * *

Tom took another sip of his drink and forced himself to focus on Hermione. She was meticulously laying out the rules of the card game for the second time as they listened. The rules had definitive reasoning and logic behind them. What was not so clear was how he was going to keep the rules straight in his head.

"And that's it," Hermione finished her explanation with a flourish, the cards shuffling themselves fancily in her hands like they were magical. Only it wasn't real magic. At least, Tom didn't think it was real magic. Hermione continued, "Now let's try a simple round to see if you've gotten the general idea."

The hands down round they played passed in a blur, and Tom could admit, albeit very reluctantly, that being able to play with everyone's hands of cards visible may have lulled him into a false sense of security about the game.

He didn't think that was significant enough to count as his second mistake of the night, however. That milestone title went to the moment where Hermione asked, "So, now that you're all caught up on how to play, how about we up the stakes?", and he had immediately and foolishly agreed to it.

When he was looking back on this decision later, Tom thought at least he had had the excuse of not having known Hermione very personally over the course of seven years. Ron and Neville had no such excuse, and really should have known better.

Although, it had sounded like such a good idea at the time! Tom had a wallet in his mokeskin pouch with several coins in it. It would have been nice to add more coins to his collection. He also had the liquid confidence of someone who was too utterly sloshed to realize how little he actually knew.

But they had all foolishly agreed to this new plan, likely thinking that Hermione was too kind and merciful to milk them for all they were worth.

So, of course, Hermione then proceeded to show them how very wrong they all were by milking them for all they were worth.

* * *

Tom held up his hand of cards in front of his face. It was troublesome trying to seeing the little numbers and letters. He could no longer distinguish this hand from all the other hands of cards he'd held over the course of the evening. He tried to force his eyes to focus by squinting harder, but that did not seem to make anything look less fuzzy.

"Harry, mate, you bet your glasses. I don't think that holding them up to your face like that is going to be helpful," Ron said helpfully, slurring his words ever so slightly.

Tom pulled the cards away, stretching his arms out, and was shocked to discover that this did help. Harry's stupid eyes didn't even make sense. He grumbled to himself about this for a moment before remembering that he was supposed to be wearing his 'poker face', as Hermione had called it.

Now, Hermione had said a great number of things over the course of the evening. She had started with the rules of playing poker, and then progressed to the rules of betting. Then there had been a short interlude in which Tom lost a lot of money to Hermione Granger.

Hermione, throughout all of this, had continued talking about poker and all of its vaguely related activities. This included something about how, when Tom ran out of coins, he could bet other things. Other things like his robes and his glasses. After that very poor decision, Tom had lost track of how the game was going. It had been rather distressing to watch that many coins disappear from his side of the table.

So all of that was what had brought about the fact that Tom was now sitting at the table dressed only in his socks, shoes, and underwear.

Thankfully, he was not the only one in this position. Both Neville and Ron had long since run out of money to bet. They had run out after he had, actually. Tom tried to think about what that implied, but his brain was coming up short. Holding up all these cards was taking a lot of mental energy. Still, Ron and Neville were slightly more dressed than he was, but not by a lot. So he thought he must not be doing too badly.

Tom took another blurry look at his cards and decided this round was not worth the effort of trying to read. He folded his cards with a sigh. At least now he could go refill his drink.

Getting up and wandering over to the table, Tom looked over his options. Without his glasses, it was a bit difficult to find the bowl of spiked pumpkin juice. Eventually, Tom identified the large orange circle. He went to ladle some into his cup, but couldn't quite seem to manage the coordinated action required.

He snorted in disgust and picked up the punch bowl. No one else was appreciating his punch, anyways. Something about how pumpkin juice was a terrible mixer. They had all gone to straight Firewhiskey, which just showed that they were all lightweights who couldn't hold their liquor.

Tom carried his bowl of punch back to the table. Settling back down in his seat, he conjured a straw and plopped it into the bowl. There was no real point in dishing it out into a separate cup if he was the only one drinking it. Satisfied at having facilitated the consumption of his delicious drink, Tom took a nice refreshing gulp. Using a straw was a lot easier than attempting to pick his cup up, and it neatly removed the need to coordinate his limbs over to the table for refills.

Looking around at the table, he saw that Hermione had finally succeeded in liberating Ron of his undershirt. Things were not looking very good for any remaining articles of male clothing at the table. The few that were left seemed to be in serious danger of falling into Hermione's possession.

Tom found he needed another drink to cope with this harsh reality. Perhaps, if he was lucky enough, he could manage to hold onto his socks…

* * *

Despite having efficiently innovated his drinking experience, Tom soon found himself sitting in just his underwear.

He wasn't entirely sure how this had happened. Well, he knew Hermione must have won the rest of his clothing off him, but he didn't actually _remember _it happening.

This was concerning, so he took a sip of his drink while he pondered it. The punch tasted… odd. Perhaps sitting out all night had made the pumpkin juice go off.

Tom watched as Neville lost both of his socks to Hermione. Tom's prediction on the fate of their clothing had proven true. Perhaps getting drunk was enough to turn you into a Seer. It certainly explained Trelawney rather well. If that old bat could do it, surely he, Tom Riddle, the most powerful wizard in centuries, would be able to.

That was more than enough reason for him to take another drink. Tom sipped at his punch, smacking his lips at the strange lack of flavour. It took him longer than it should have, but he eventually came to the startling realization that he was no longer drinking his spiked pumpkin juice, but was instead drinking water.

Someone had had the _audacity _to replace his drink with water. This made him very upset. Tom got up to yell at whoever it was that had done it, but as he did so the world began to spin rapidly. It was like those stupid yo-yos the orphans at Wool's had loved so much.

Looking around the room and ignoring the swirling motions as best he could, Tom sought out a table lamp with his eyes. He stared at it, desperately trying to get the world to stay still, filling his entire vision with just horrible brightness of the lamp.

His concentration was broken when Neville nudged him roughly and asked, "Hmmm? You 'right th're, 'Arry?" Tom started to wonder when Neville had developed a French accent, but decided against asking because he suddenly felt very, very nauseous.

Tom raised his hand to cover his mouth, sure that he was about to lose everything he had ever eaten in his life, and rushed to the toilets.

* * *

Tom woke up to the distinct, unshakable feeling that he no longer wanted to fall unconscious ever again. He was in his bed, mostly fine, but still a little unsettled. This habit of waking up with no recollection of his previous activities was somewhat concerning.

Tom sat up properly, and pushed the covers down blearily. He then realized, to his horror, that he was still dressed in only his underwear. Tom yanked the covers back up to preserve his decency.

"Not much use in that after last night," Neville said. Neville was already up and about, albeit equally disrobed as he was digging in his wardrobe.

"Wha—" Tom's voice came out like a squeak, so he cleared his throat and tried again, "What happened last night?"

"Well, we learned to never, ever, ever play poker with Hermione ever again," Neville said ruefully, his voice slightly muffled as he pulled a shirt on over his head.

"I remember that bit," Tom said slowly, still trying to call up the memories he was missing, "Or, I remember most of that bit. But how did I get here? The last thing I remember is rushing to the toilets…"

Neville's tone went extremely sympathetic. "You definitely did not make it there. You got nearly around the couch, but then you tripped on a chair, vomited on your way down, and then just kinda lay in it until Hermione took pity on you and vanished the vomit."

That sounded neither very dignified nor like something he would do. Around his burgeoning confusion over the night's events, Tom tried to recall the original purpose of the gathering. He had been attempting to learn more about how Harry interacted with his friends. At least that part of his plan had mostly panned out, he thought glumly.

"We quit playing after that to put you to bed," Neville continued. He pulled a pair of trousers on and began his search for socks. "And when we were up here, well, the beds looked really comfy, so we decided it was as good a time as any to sleep."

Tom stifled the instinct to complain about being treated like an undignified child. Perhaps Harry had no dignity regarding his actions and didn't mind letting his friends mother him, but Tom didn't need any such help. He was a grown adult who could handle the shame of waking up in his underwear with no recollection of how he'd gotten there.

He realized he'd only been tracking Neville's movements out of a familiarity for his routine. Tom needed to put on Harry's glasses. It took a substantial amount of effort to slide an arm out from where he had been hiding it under the bed. He swung the arm out towards the nightstand, patting blindly across the surface, searching for where he typically placed the glasses before going to bed.

Neville must have been watching him, because he said, "Hermione still has your glasses. And all of our clothes, and our money. And a good bit of our dignity, I think, but you didn't hear that from me. If you get dressed, maybe you can join me in begging for them back. I'm pretty sure Hermione will at least give you back your glasses."

Tom sulkily pulled his arm back, re-situating it under the safety of his blankets, but not before he also snagged his wand from the bedside table. "Where's Ron, anyways?"

"Still asleep," Neville informed him. Tom looked over in the general direction of Ron's bed, where there appeared to be a large, blanket-covered lump resting peacefully. "C'mon Harry, the world's not going to get any more focused while you just lay in bed like that."

Tom sighed melodramatically, debating the merits of just staying in bed and being semi-blind forever. Then he used his wand to wordlessly summon a set of clothes. He pulled the clothes under the covers and set to work.

It was a little awkward, but Neville seemed to be content just standing there, so it wasn't as though he had better options. The motions of changing under the covers was going to do horrendous things to Harry's already atrociously messy hair. Tom deplored over this fact as he tried to wrestle his way into a jumper.

After Tom climbed out of bed, now fully dressed, he could hear Neville was laughing. At him!

"Did you just forget about the bed hangings?"

Tom made the mistake of turning back to look at his bed. Indeed, there appeared to be some blurry, curtain-like things attached to the Gryffindor beds. It wasn't as though he could see them _now_. Slytherin dorms did not have hangings, he thought. How was he supposed to remember that Gryffindor dorms did!

There was no reason to be bothered with paying close attention to their room. He only came here for sleeping, why would he have noticed the presence of hangings? He'd taken to bed early most nights to avoid overt socialization, usually citing the 'magical exhaustion' that Hermione kept insisting he had.

"I, uh, it's warmer under the blankets," Tom claimed lamely.

"Sure," Neville said, sounding as though he was only humoring him.

Tom suppressed his instinctive annoyance at this, and gestured for Neville to precede him out of the room.

When they reached the common room, Tom noticed that the furniture had all been returned to its rightful place. He blessed the existence of house-elves yet again. Being Harry Potter and having the Hogwarts house-elves falling over themselves to appease him was a thousand times better than having Death Eaters.

Complimenting of house-elves reminded him of his original purpose. Tom spotted the familiar shape of Hermione lounging in an armchair by the fireplace. He couldn't be sure given his lack of glasses, but he thought he saw a pile of their miscellaneous belongings from the night before. Hermione had one hand resting almost possessively on top of the pile, and her other hand was stroking Crookshanks, who was loudly purring in her lap.

"Looking for something, gentlemen?" Hermione asked smugly, picking up something from the pile beside her and twirling it in small circles.

Tom glared at her blurry form accusingly. "Hermione, I know I can't see very well right now, but you don't really look like someone who spent their evening passed out drunk on their bed."

"That's because I didn't." Hermione still sounded like she was smiling. "However, I will allow you your glasses back, if only so you can appreciate this moment properly."

She held his glasses out to him. Tom took them and put them on. The world became viewable once again, and Tom almost allowed himself to relax.

Neville was looking at Hermione with an expression of frank admiration. "You were sober the entire night, weren't you?"

Tom remembered why he wasn't allowed to relax. "You what?" he demanded. "First you eschew my pumpkin juice punch, now this? I planned that party so we could all get drunk and do embarrassing things together. That's what celebratory bonding is supposed to look like!"

Hermione sniffed at them both. "Well, that was the plan, until Ron made fun of me for drinking. So I decided that it would be more amusing to teach you all poker and liberate a few of your possessions from you." Crookshanks purred loudly to punctuate this statement, looking every bit as smug as his owner.

"I don't have any more money!" Tom complained. "And that was my only clean pair of socks left." He was going to have to buy more socks. Either that or have the house-elves wash the singular remaining pair he had on a daily basis. What was it with Harry and his appalling lack of a wardrobe. Although he supposed being on the run for the better half of a year meant you ran through a lot of socks.

Ron chose that unfortunate moment to come down the stairs. He wasn't wearing any shoes, and therefore was immediately able to identify his shoes where they sat atop Hermione's pile of winnings. "There they are," Ron said, making a beeline to where Hermione sat.

Hermione, predictably, smacked his hand away. "I think you're forgetting who won these last night."

"That was a good laugh, wasn't it?" Ron said nervously. He looked at Neville and Tom for backup. Tom was shaking his head before Ron even finished his question. "We all got drunk and had a laugh."

"You all got drunk," Hermione responded. "And then you all proceeded to lose your clothes like fools. I Transfigured my drink into water after you made fun of me for it."

Ron, having finally cottoned on to the situation he was now in, switched tactics. "Right. You're the best at poker, you can have a drink if you like, and we've all learned our lesson. And now I'm going to need my shoes back so we can go see McGonagall about our classes."

Crookshanks leapt off of Hermione's lap, swishing over to wear Ron stood, and rubbing orange cat hair all over his trousers. Neville looked like he was trying not to laugh at Ron's forlorn expression.

"Alright," Neville finally said. "Since this clearly isn't going anywhere, I think we ought to head down for breakfast."

Tom sighed and gave into the inevitable. Harry had money in Gringotts, didn't he? The Potters were a wealthy bunch. One lost outfit of clothing wasn't the end of the world. It was the losing part that bothered him the most. It was clear to him now that Hermione was the most devious of the lot of Harry's friends. He'd have to remember that lest he find himself in Ron's shoes—er, well, not shoes, exactly. In Ron's unfortunate position of no longer owning shoes.

Hermione was now in the process of placing all her newly acquired belongings into a bag, which she then stowed into her little beaded purse. She followed Neville out of the common room, leaving Ron and Tom behind to work through the serious issue of Ron's lack of footwear.

"You could Transfigure something into shoes," Tom suggested helpfully.

Ron thought that over. "Could you get one of the house-elves to bring me a pair of shoes?" he asked hopefully.

Tom thought that over. He weighed risking Hermione Granger's wrath against scoring a friendship point with Ron Weasley. Ron's luck wasn't very good today, Tom thought sympathetically. He was drawing the short straw yet again.

"Sorry, mate," Tom said, clapping Ron on the back. "I don't think they've got shoes that'll fit you."

Then he quickly and casually made his way out through the portrait hole before Ron could protest or ask further questions like "What do you mean house-elves have got shoes?". Tom, having already moved on from Ron's problems, wondered if the house-elves would serve those sausages he liked for breakfast today.

* * *

A/N:

**tom, drunkenly:** hermione, i know you want to free house-elves, but is this really the way to go about it  
**hermione, making a grabby motion with her hand:** shirt. off.

_~the next day~_

**hermione, holding a full outfit made of stolen pieces:** thank you gentlemen, i shall be very comfortable with all these pockets  
**tom:** uh, you forgot to give me my pants back  
**hermione:** forgot is such a strong word

This chapter was supposed to include at least two other scenes, but Hermione insisted on literally winning the pants off of the lads so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

ALSO: the prequel is now out! go check out our profile for "Legilimency for Dummies"!

Please give us all the comments! They are much appreciated :)


	6. Harry's Gonna Regret This Later

_**CHAPTER FIVE  
**_

**_Harry's Gonna Regret This Later_**

* * *

Breakfast consisted of the sausage Tom had hoped for. And possibly other things that Tom lacked the consideration to pay attention to. Ron had followed him into the Great Hall after a brief pause, perhaps realizing that even if he were to hastily Transfigure something into footwear, Hermione would likely mock him silently by glancing haughtily at them. Not that Tom would have been any nicer about it, but the fact was Hermione's opinion likely weighed more heavily than his did.

Hermione did seem to be mollified that Tom and Neville were both accepting her victory with due grace. Tom could feel her radiating smugness from across the table, which was quite impressive. He might have been tempted to congratulate her for the success of her evil plot if not for the fact that Ron was still put out about it.

"Have you thought about what classes you want to take?" Hermione asked the group.

The idea of retaking his seventh year was mostly unappealing to Tom. He didn't want to think too hard just yet on what Harry had wanted to do after Hogwarts, either. So he let Neville answer Hermione instead, and merely nodded and made agreeable noises in all the right places.

After breakfast in the Great Hall concluded, Tom lead the way to McGonagall's office, occasionally glancing down at Ron's sock-shod feet and snorting softly. Unlike some people, he hadn't lost anything he couldn't easily replace. He felt a little better knowing that he was doing better than Ron Weasley.

They were standing around waiting for an enchanted staircase to swing into position when Neville said, "I resent, just a little, that Snape and the other resident Death Eaters fucked up my education so badly that I have to redo the whole year to get my NEWTs."

"Um," Hermione said, glancing at Neville. Tom didn't blame her, he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound hollow or awkward. Neville had spent a majority of his school year keeping up the war effort from inside Hogwarts. That type of thing didn't tend to lend free time for studying Herbology.

"I guess it was worth it for the comfortable hammocks in the Room of Requirement. And the firewhiskey that Aberforth kept us supplied with."

"Wait," Tom said, confused. "How did you pay for the firewhiskey?"

"Uh, I didn't. Aberforth just sent it over. Said it was the least he could do, considering how shitty things were."

Tom grumbled to himself, now sure that he'd paid for alcohol he could've gotten for free. He'd given Milley so many coins to pay for last night's party. If he hadn't paid, he would have still had them! Although, he mused, he likely would have then gone on to lose them all to Hermione. It was sad to think about. He'd have to find a way to get money out of Gringotts to replenish his empty wallet.

Ron, surprisingly, was the one who began to complain about the unfairness of the paying-for-Firewhiskey situation. He and Neville bickered about it the rest of the way to gargoyle. Tom thought it was nice that Ron cared about Harry's money that much. Certainly he'd never given much thought to the standings of Malfoy's finances during his time as the Dark Lord.

The gargoyle came into view shortly, and Tom was startled to realize that this would be the third person he'd known as the Head of Hogwarts. Fourth, really, if he wanted to count Snape, but he hadn't been present for that reign of terror in any meaningful way. It was still odd to think about. Hogwarts had likely never seen itself change hands so many times in so few years.

Tom breathed in a deep lungful of the familiar castle air, glad that despite the many, many years that had passed Hogwarts still felt like home. The damage he'd done to his own soul, as well as to the castle itself, seemed like it could, someday, fade enough to become a distant memory.

Hermione gave the password to the gargoyle, which leapt aside as usual. And then they were climbing aboard the glorified escalator. Tom still didn't quite see why the stairs needed to _ move_. Unless it was a tactic to disorient your enemies before they arrived, in which case he suspected that Dumbledore must have been behind the suggestion to charm it.

As they clambered into McGonagall's office, Tom peered about curiously, though he avoided looking too closely at any of the portraits. He had absolutely zero desire to see Snape or Dumbledore. For once, Harry's abysmal eyesight was coming in handy.

"Good morning," Professor McGonagall greeted them, looking up from the mountain of paperwork on her desk.

Tom was quite relieved that he was not the one who had to deal with sorting through the mess his Death Eaters had made of things. He'd had enough of that during the first Wizarding War, and had no desire to revisit the menial labour of paperwork.

"We're here to sort out our classes for the next year," Hermione stated, straight to business as always.

"I find myself unsurprised that this endeavour is led by yourself, Ms. Granger. I imagine your original course choices will likely suffice, but before you commit to those I thought you would like to hear about this year's staffing changes." Here McGonagall smiled at them wryly, as though they were all sharing a private joke. "I am sure you will understand me when I say that I am hoping such changes will no longer be needed on a yearly basis. So, without further ado, Defense Against the Dark Arts will be taught by Professor Hannah Nettle and Transfiguration will be taught by Professor Amanda Whittle."

Tom had no idea who those people were, but their names sounded like they had been randomly made up.

"Well," Hermione said bracingly, "they can't be much worse than Dumbledore's previous choices, can they?"

Dumbledore did really have a bad track record with Defense professors. Over half of the ones Harry had been taught by had been Death Eaters. It was like the old fool had been trying to set Harry up for failure. Or maybe the opposite, considering all the skills you probably picked up when your Defense professor was trying to kill you. Maybe it was all just some kind of insane, deluded way of preparing Harry for the war with Voldemort.

"Maybe this will be the year we finally have a Defense professor who doesn't try to kill Harry," Ron muttered under his breath.

"They didn't all try to kill Harry," Hermione offered sympathetically. "I mean, we had Professor Lockhart. And Professor Snape, I suppose."

If _ that _ was supposed to be reassuring, Tom wondered if he ought to start preparing for an assassination attempt this year, just in case.

"You may rest assured that neither of these Professors are Death Eaters," McGonagall cut in. "Unfortunately, I can't say much more for them beyond that—it has been difficult to find wizards and witches with the necessary credentials given the circumstances."

'Given the circumstances' appeared to be a nicer way of saying 'we've just gotten out of a war and we only had two months to find people who were definitely not evil'. At least Tom was reasonably certain that McGonagall's idea of a non-Death Eater professor was more likely to be valid than Dumbledore's. He had to respect her for putting up with Dumbledore all these years. If it had been him, he would have snapped and committed murder years ago.

Then Ron said, "It's not like we ought to have much trouble with the Defense NEWT," and nudged Tom, a broad grin on his face.

Now Tom certainly didn't expect any trouble, but he suspected it was not for the same reasons Ron was thinking. But maybe he wasn't giving Ron enough credit. Being on the run from Lord Voldemort for the better part of a year probably did count for something. You didn't survive all of that if you were _ bad _ at Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Tom did idly wonder if they'd changed the exam very much since he'd taken it in the 1940s, but he supposed there was only one way to find out. Besides breaking into the Ministry, that was.

"I'm sure we'll all be panicking and asking Hermione for help come exam season," Neville said reasonably.

Hermione nodded primly, seeming satisfied.

"So did anyone want to make changes to their schedule?" McGonagall interjected.

"I'm fine with mine," Hermione said, and glanced around at the rest of them. Ron and Neville were both nodding agreement, and Tom belatedly followed suit.

A part of Tom wanted to add something at least a bit interesting to his schedule, like Ancient Runes or Arithmancy. At NEWT level those classes tended to involve a lot of self-directed projects, which would be a more valuable use of his time. But Harry had never shown any scholastic inclinations towards those classes, so it would likely be out of character for him to request them.

McGonagall made a few notes on a long scroll of names. There really should be a better way to organize all of that information, Tom thought. Perhaps he would look into it at a later point.

Then the Headmistress continued, "Oh, I should also mention that I plan on doing random inspections of _ all _ classes this coming year. And I will have an open door policy regarding any complaints about any of our professors." McGonagall cleared her throat delicately, her eyes shifting over to an empty picture frame clearly labelled, 'Severus Snape'. "I don't intend to let anyone get away with any sort of inappropriate behaviour or misconduct that may have been permissible in the past."

"Finally!" Ron crowed.

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs and said, "That's very sensible of you, Professor. Especially with the new staff members."

"Please come to me with any concerns you have—I want all our students to feel like they can be safe at Hogwarts again, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen." She looked rather sad, then, likely because she was disappointed that people could no longer rely on Hogwarts to be a safe haven.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Tom thought privately that if it turned out the Defense professor _ was _ trying to kill him, he would still try to deal with it himself before he came to tell Headmistress McGonagall about it. Hogwarts had once been his safe haven too, and it was disconcerting to think of it as a place students didn't want to go to anymore.

Hermione, thankfully, rescued them all from responding and said, "We will make sure to do that."

"We'll leave you alone now, Professor, you must be terribly busy," Neville said as he began to edge towards the door.

Eager for the chance to leave the office that contained the painting of Albus Dumbledore, Tom happily followed him.

From there, their little group dispersed throughout the castle to tie up loose ends with the restoration.

This was always Tom's favorite part of the day. He could usually get away with not seeing anyone who knew Harry very well for several hours. It was him, his magic, and the beautiful thrum of Hogwarts being rebuilt.

Tom liked the idea of his magic becoming a part of the school. It felt proper that he left behind traces of his magical legacy in these walls. The only thing better was when he got to be truly alone, but he rarely had that particular luxury.

And it was a luxury he would be forgoing for a while yet. He was going to be here at Hogwarts taking Harry's classes, living with Harry's friends, and ostensibly aiming for Harry's ambitions. Tom had never once given thought to becoming an Auror. He supposed it made sense for Harry, whose entire life revolved around growing up to defeat Lord Voldemort.

Tom had dreamed of grander things in his youth. And he had already accomplished many of those things as Voldemort. The fact that he was now being made to start all over again should have been more irritating, he thought. But most of his waking moments these days were spent worrying about being caught out.

To be honest, he wasn't sure what else he wanted to do. He no longer wanted to be Voldemort. He had seen, with Harry's help, that those choices only led to insanity and ruin. However, he didn't particularly want to be an Auror, either. He was beginning to realize that he did not have very many options available to him as Harry Potter.

Perhaps he could become an Auror anyways, and after a short while he could ask to be moved into training. He wouldn't mind doing that, and it would not be too strange a choice for Harry, who had once led an entire illegal training group in Defense lessons. It would almost be like teaching Defense at Hogwarts, only with older students.

Tom found he liked this idea more and more as he continued to think about it. It was certainly on the higher end of acceptable outcomes. People would love to be taught by Harry Potter. And the Ministry would let him do whatever he wanted because he had saved them all from Voldemort. He could position himself in the Ministry very easily, making connections with other influential people. Perhaps someday he could become Minister.

Yes, this was a very good plan. And Harry's friends would not suspect a single thing as long as he was very careful.

* * *

The morning of September 1st dawned bright and cool. It was one of those rare days that felt like fall long before it ought to have started to. The morning dew clung to the grass outside and condensation clung to the windows, but by the time afternoon arrived he knew it could be positively sweltering. Tom hated these types of days because it made it difficult to plan outfits in advance.

As such, he was now looking into his wardrobe with a distinct look of displeasure visible on his face. He gazed at the lightweight, cooling-charmed outfit he had originally planned for this morning, then went digging in his trunk to find something more weather appropriate.

Really, Tom thought, this whole adventure was a waste of time. Hermione was insisting they ride the train to Hogwarts—something about it being 'part of the experience!' and 'the last chance we'll ever have to do so!'.

But Tom couldn't help but think that this would be, at the least, his second last ride on the Hogwarts Express. It didn't feel like this was to be his last trip, so therefore it wouldn't be.

Pulling on a clean dress shirt, Tom stared glumly at the dorm room he was standing in. He was bitter that he had to leave the comfort of his room only to end up back here in the end.

Ron and Neville were still asleep, but this was neither unsurprising nor unplanned. Tom enjoyed having an early start to the morning because it gave him some much needed time alone. It was a chance to reorient himself before the rest woke up and he had to worry about being _ Harry _ enough.

Admittedly, he was still plagued with guilt about the whole Harry-being-dead situation, and being around Harry's friends was a constant reminder of that. If only, he thought, there was some way to get rid of all those pesky feelings for the time being. Just so he could have the space to get his scrambled thoughts together.

Perhaps a nice walk across the Hogwarts grounds would cheer him up. Tom liked the quiet of the forest, which was always clear of people in the hours before classes started. There were a number of clearings which were excellent for settling down to think in.

And then, as he stood there with his head stuck in a jumper, it occurred to him what he had forgotten about.

He yanked the jumper the rest of the way down, paused just long enough to ensure he was adequately dressed to go out in public, then tore out of the room at high speed. The Fat Lady shrieked a little at him on his way through the portrait hole, but he ignored her.

Tom was distracted even he made his way down the maze of staircases outside the Gryffindor Tower. The act of forgetting had thrown him off, and now he was struggling to piece together a concrete plan in his head. But before he did any of that, there was a memory he needed to retrieve. With the easy effort of a practiced Legilimens, Tom sought out the pieces he had tucked away in the furthest depths of his mind.

The door he found himself in front of was constructed of a warm-hued wooden grain. Harry's name was engraved in brilliant gold lettering—it was Harry's own handwriting too, Tom realized belatedly. It gleamed incessantly in his mind's eye like a neon sign.

The doorknob was also golden, and it bore the signature markings of a snitch. Even his own mental construction associated Harry with Quidditch. Although Tom supposed in this case, the snitch was a fitter symbol. Tom's projected self reached for the doorknob, knowing that the door was not locked because he had not locked it. The door creaked, a brilliant white light spilling out from behind it.

Tom readjusted himself in the mindscape, taking in his new surroundings. Then Tom groaned, as he always did, at the state of disarray around him. One day he was going to have to sit down and take the time to organize all of Harry's memories properly. This sort of thing was simply unacceptable to him.

If only Harry had been better at Occlumency, Tom deplored. Then this pursuit of one particular memory would be much less painful

He tried to picture the memory he was looking for, hoping that would draw it to him more easily. Unfortunately Harry's memories were still somewhat unfamiliar to him, and they did not respond to his mental requests for retrieval. Resigned to his fate, Tom began to sprint down the mentally-constructed hallways, opening everything he came across.

By this point, Tom's physical form was drawing close to the Great Lake. He had been correct about the weather, which was a tad too cold for the original clothes he had wanted to wear. Tom had just stepped out onto the grounds when his mental-self finally stumbled upon a small mokeskin pouch. It contained the recollection he was looking for—the memory of Harry in the Forbidden Forest, prepared to sacrifice himself for his friends.

There was a frantic second in which Tom felt himself suddenly sucked towards the memory against his will.

Tom's immediate instinct was to pull out, but he was just as afraid of falling into the memory as he was of losing hold of it. Eventually he was forced to pull up his Occlumency shields. This enabled him to suppress the tide of emotions while allowing him enough distance to focus.

Despite his precautions, the memory still hit with the force of a freight train:_ I am about to die. _

It took a moment for him to regain a sense of stability within in the memory. Tom mentally traced through Harry's slow walk through the forest, making careful note of the fabled Resurrection Stone clutched in Harry's hand. He knew when Harry had decided to drop the stone to the cold forest floor; it was simply a matter of learning where.

He waited with no small amount of trepidation for the ghosts of Harry's family to appear before him. This was different than his visit Godric's Hollow. This was a deliberate choice he'd made, to view this moment in his mind. Tom waited, his breath held, his eyes scanning the darkness around them.

No ghosts materialized in the clearing.

Puzzled, Tom stepped closer to Harry, close enough to see that Harry's lips were indeed moving. Harry was speaking to spectres that Tom could not see. Tom supposed that did make sense—only the wielder was able to see those recalled from Death.

"_Stay close to me,_" said the memory-Harry, and Tom knew the time was near.

It was his own voice he heard next, high and clear. "_I thought he would come_," said memory-Voldemort. "_I expected him to come._" Tom did not look in the direction of his other self. He was, perhaps, afraid of what truth Harry's eyes would reveal.

Silence reigned across the clearing, save for the quiet sounds of Harry's erratic breathing. Tom inched closer still, the better to see the Stone still clenched in Harry's hand. The memory felt strange; Tom had memories of this scene from two perspectives, and they were beginning to overlap.

"_I was, it seems... mistaken_," continued memory-Voldemort.

"_You weren't_." Harry's own voice, by contrast, sounded strong despite its slight waver.

Tom saw the stone slip from Harry's fingers into the cold dirt below their feet. Trembling, he froze the memory to be able to examine the location more closely. It was hard to tell precisely where in the forest they were because Harry had deliberately paid no attention to where he'd dropped the stone.

The general location was easy to find, however. And since he knew where Harry had been headed, he ought to be able to trace the path with relative accuracy. Tom had spent enough time in the forest that he knew most of the main trails. There was unlikely to be many clearings in this section of forest.

Now certain that he would be able to find the stone, Tom set off along the nearest path, determined to ignore the strange, urgent insistence of Harry's vivid recollections pressing against the inside of his skull. He was on a mission now, and he didn't have the time for another emotional crisis.

As he drew closer to the clearing he pulled out the hawthorn wand and lit it up. The sun might have already been up for hours, but the dense clumping of trees prevented much of the sunlight from reaching the forest floor. The stone was neither big nor brightly colored, so he was going to need every bit of advantage he could muster to find it.

Then Tom realized, stupidly, that he hadn't thought to try the obvious solution.

"_Accio Resurrection Stone_," Tom incanted. Then he waited, but after a pause it was obvious that no stone was about to materialize.

Alright, perhaps that had just been foolish to try. Tom tried to recall what other spells he could try to make this task easier, but as his eyes caught on the hawthorn wand, he was reminded of yet again another option. He stowed the hawthorn wand away and pulled out the Elder Wand.

He tried again: "_Accio Resurrection Stone_."

He was half surprised, half satisfied when he heard the whistle of a stone flying through the air at a high velocity.

Harry's Seeker reflexes came through for him—he was able to catch it easily. The stone smacked directly into his bare palm. Fleetingly, he mused that he ought to have remembered to bring gloves. The last thing he wanted to risk was accidentally summoning someone. Tome carefully stretched the sleeve of his jumper down to cover his free hand, and then dropped the stone into it. Tom examined his prize briefly to verify its authenticity, then immediately transferred it into his mokeskin pouch.

Truthfully, he felt much better now. He was secure in the knowledge that he had eliminated the possibility of another person finding the stone, no matter how infinitesimal that possibility had been. Frankly, he couldn't believe that he had managed to forget about it in the first place. First of all, it was a valuable artefact. This wasn't something he would have usually let slip his mind so easily. Years of working at Borgin's had honed Tom's magpie tendencies to an art form.

Second of all, it was a horrible security risk. Someone could have happened upon the stone and ruined absolutely everything. All it would have taken was some dead person to bring up the great Harry Potter, and Tom would be exposed as a fraud. Worse than that, he would likely be caught and killed once they realized just who exactly was currently residing in Harry's body.

Tom could imagine Ron Weasley summoning his brother for a chat, only get a Howler's worth of shouting about how Harry Potter was actually Lord Voldemort in disguise.

Thankfully, he had now removed the possibility of that ever happening. It was far safer for the stone to be in Tom's possession where he could keep an eye on it. He certainly had no intention to use it himself, despite the numerous questions he had for Harry Potter.

Maybe that made him a coward, but he had no desire to talk with the boy whose body he had essentially stolen. Even if this was supposed to be his second chance, Tom didn't want to go about tempting fate.

The stone was simply a means to an end, he told himself. A way to prolong his continued, secretive existence. Having it didn't mean that he was going to use it.

Task completed, Tom efficiently cleared his mind of these thoughts and turned around, prepared to head back to the castle to meet up with his... friends... who were surely awake by now.

* * *

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed upon seeing him in the common room. She was moving towards him, clearly coming in for a hug. She was acting like he'd been gone for days. Tom checked the wristwatch that had once belonged to Fabian Prewett. It had been… an hour. And that was being generous.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed anyways, mimicking her tone as he accepted the hug. It was far easier to just let it happen.

"Are you ready to go? I really don't want us to be late," Hermione said, tugging at the strap of the bag she had slung over her shoulder.

Behind her, Ron and Neville were rising from their seats, both of them looking a bit harried. Tom guessed that Hermione had infected them with her worries.

Tom looked down to check his watch again,—he could have sworn he still had time to get breakfast before they left—it was only nine in the morning. That left plenty of time to relax and eat before Apparating to King's Cross.

He wasn't going to say that to Hermione, though. "Let me run up and grab my bag, and then we can go."

"Well alright, but don't take forever about it," Hermione called after him as he hurried upstairs.

Once in the dorm room, Tom called Milley and asked her to bring him some toast. Then he set about reorganizing his—Harry's—possessions. The Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map were pulled out of his mokeskin pouch and placed into a rucksack. Tom also added a few books, in case he was miraculously given the opportunity to read during the train ride. Everything else, he decided, he could leave in his locked trunk.

Milley reappeared with the toast, which Tom thanked her for. He wrapped most of it and jammed it into his bag, saving one piece to eat. He then crammed it into his mouth, chewing quickly to dispose of the evidence. Swallowing thickly, he pulled his bag on and and darted back down the stairs.

"Is everyone ready to go?" Hermione asked as soon she saw him. She peered round at them all suspiciously, as though waiting for someone to disagree. "Did anyone forget anything?"

Ron shook his head and Neville said, "Think we're all good."

The journey down to the grounds was just as quiet as Tom's earlier morning walk had been. There was a definite feeling of nostalgia lingering around them as they wound through the familiar corridors and hallways. It was not very long at all before they reached the ground floor, the cool morning air washing over Tom's face as they headed towards the edge of the wards. As they neared the gate, Hermione broke the companionable silence.

"If I seem a little tense this morning, it's only because I'm a bit nervous about today," she said slowly, as though she had to deliberately look for the words to say. "I've spent so much time worrying about the war, thinking that it would go on and on. I never expected we'd be able to come back to finish our schooling at Hogwarts. I thought we'd be too old, or—"

Hermione inhaled and exhaled deeply, her shoulders slumping with the motion. "I guess I'm just happy that we're all here. And I'm thankful you all came to do this with me. We've worked so hard, and been through so much, I just… I want it to be perfect. Our last year at Hogwarts."

"And I know that's ridiculous on a surface level." Hermione sniffed, grimacing in a self-deprecating fashion. "So I'll try my best to not be so overbearing about it. But if I am, just tell me and I'll try to rein it in."

Ron took a step closer to her and slung his arm around her shoulders. "I really don't think any of us expected to be here today, Hermione," he said fondly. "But I'll definitely tell you if you get too overbearing."

"Definitely," Neville chuckled. "Does that offer extend past today?"

"Ha ha ha," Hermione laughed sardonically. "Very amusing."

Tom had fallen a bit behind the others by this point. Watching the three friends shift so easily from a serious conversation topic to simply joking around made it painfully apparent how little Tom fit in with them. Here he was, an outsider, observing their interactions like there was a thick glass wall separating him from them. Ron, Hermione, and Neville had spent most of their formative years together; they knew each other inside and out, and they loved each other for it.

Harry, too, had fit in the same way.

Tom looked down at his shoes. Harry's shoes. He might have been literally wearing Harry's shoes, but he knew that, in the hearts of the three people in front of him, he would never measure up.

Having Harry's memories was not the equivalent of seven years of friendship. Tom didn't know how to relate to people, didn't know how he was supposed to treat equals in the place of subordinates. He didn't know how to form the kind of bonds they would be expecting of him.

And it was awkward, walking with Harry's friends, knowing that it was the death of Lord Voldemort that had brought them this sense of peace and happiness.

Tom wondered when they would decide he had suddenly become 'too different' and leave him behind. Maybe he could drift away, slowly, and they could live their lives without him. They would be better off without someone who couldn't give them the friendship Harry had given them.

Someone grabbed his hand, and Tom nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden contact. Bewildered, he looked around. He hadn't realized his surroundings had changed so drastically. Harry's three friends had slowed their pace to match Tom's, and Neville had pulled close enough to grab Tom's hand in his. And then Hermione was gripping his hand gently, too, swinging it as she walked.

Looking down at his hands, both of them clasped in Hermione's and Neville's respectively, Tom let his worries drift away. He focused on them, and on the crisp air, and on the blue sky. He focused on the warm sensation of their hands in his. This would be enough. He would be enough. He had to be.

* * *

A/N:

**harry:** tom, i know u never had a creepy old mentor read u 'the tale of the three brothers', but this whole being called back thing is not a very pleasant experience  
**tom, already crying:** are you LEAVING ME  
**harry, desperately:** NO no i'm just saying please don't call me to ask what to make for dinner anymore i'm begging you

A/N Amanda: Hey kids, Transfiguration is fun :)  
A/N Hannah: Damn rly hope Professor Nettle doesn't try to kill Tom—I mean Harry


	7. An Interview With Rita Skeeter

_**CHAPTER SIX  
**_

**_Harry Potter Triumphant: An Interview With Rita Skeeter  
_**

* * *

Once they had Apparated to King's Cross station, they easily blended into the crowds of Muggles. Tom curiously glanced around, taking in the new Muggle fashions and how very different even the trains themselves appeared. It was, expectedly, markedly different from his time at Hogwarts, but it was still strange to realize just how much time had passed since he'd first gotten on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago.

The trains now appeared to be sleek and shiny, a far cry from the dingy trains Muggles had had to make do with during WWII, when all the resources had gone towards bombs and guns and things like that and not towards new trains for the civilians. Tom knew logically that these new, luxurious train cars were the result of progress on behalf of the Muggles, but seeing them was still jarring.

Hermione had already forged a path through the bustling crowds of people, her determined stride causing people to step out of her way and otherwise create space. She was truly a force to be reckoned with, Tom thought admiringly. It had once been him, Tom Riddle, Head Boy of Hogwarts, pushing his way through a large crowd with the sheer magnitude of his presence leading the way. Returning to this familiar platform was surfacing all kinds of nostalgic memories.

Thanks to Hermione, they made it through the station and to the wall that led to Platform 9 and ¾ in record time.

"Alright, I'll go through first and get out of the way quickly, but I'll wait for you all on the platform," Hermione said firmly.

She glanced over Tom, Ron, and Neville, a nostalgic smile flitting across her face, and then walked determinedly at the barrier with the same single-minded purpose with which she'd walked through the station.

"Hey, Neville," Ron said suddenly, "why don't you go next?"

"Sounds good to me," Neville said amicably, and followed in Hermione's footsteps, vanishing into the barrier.

Once Neville was gone, Ron turned to Tom and said, "I wanted our last time to go through the barrier to be just us, y'know—" here Ron smiled almost sheepishly, then continued, "—like our first time going to Hogwarts together. Hermione's got some of that nostalgia stuff right, so I figured why not do this last run just you and me, like old times."

Tom smiled back, nodded, and then said, "I like the sound of that." He had the fleeting thought that he really needed to go organize Harry's memories, because Ron was still standing there expectantly. Tom quickly scanned through their previous interactions, trying to find the correct context. But he couldn't quite figure out what Ron was waiting for, so he decided to take a risk and say something he wasn't sure fit with the memory that Ron was referencing, but was appropriately sappy.

"We could go through together, if you want."

Ron laughed and said, "Yeah, alright, especially since we've taken so long already. Hermione is probably pulling her hair out."

Tom barely had a moment to cough out a laugh at the joke before Ron reached out and grabbed his hand. And then, together, they strode through the wall. Tom felt the ambient magic of the barrier wash over him as they passed through and emerged on the other side.

The Hogwarts Express was there, unchanged by the many, many years since Tom had ridden it as a young boy. The familiar sight of its glossy cars was comforting. No matter what else had happened, this train was still here, and Tom would get to ride it at least one more time.

Then Tom noted that they had arrived so early that the atmosphere of the platform was not nearly as overwhelming as it soon would be. They appeared to be the only group of students in the area, aside from a few singular individuals drifting here and there.

Still gripping Tom's hand, Ron towed them both over to where Hermione was looking around anxiously.

"What took you two so long?" she demanded as she pulled them both into a hug.

"We were remembering our first time we went through," Tom said truthfully.

"Yeah, Hermione, it's a day for nostalgia, didn't you know? And we wanted our last time through the barrier to be together," Ron added.

Tom shifted his feet awkwardly, his arms still pinned tightly in Hermione's embrace. Noticing the movement, she released them both and took half a step back, face flushing slightly.

"Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking about what happened in our second year." She paused, looking them over. "You know, we'll probably be riding the train again, right? After winter break?" Hermione added, her arms still held slightly away from her body, as if she were suppressing the urge to pull them into yet another hug.

Tom didn't think he'd been hugged so much in his entire life as he had in the past day. He wasn't sure if he was actually learning to handle them appropriately so much as being trained to not immediately go limp whenever he expected them.

"You mean you're going to make us ride the train again?" Ron said, sounding horrified, "I get the nostalgia of doing it on the first day of school, but we all have Apparition licenses! And better things to do with our time!"

"But—" Hermione started, before shaking her head. She was staring at Tom, as if trying to figure something out.

Tom, having grown more used to such scrutiny from Harry's friends, refused to let himself be shaken by it. She was clearly thinking about something else, not about Tom's behavior, and there was no way she had figured out that he wasn't Harry yet.

"But…?" Ron prompted, when Hermione failed to continue.

"Sorry, Harry," Hermione said, sounding flustered. "Did you ever get your Apparition license?"

Tom had absolutely no idea.

Thankfully, Hermione answered her own question, "No, of course you haven't, when would you have? We need to get you to the Ministry and get you licensed. I mean, it's probably fine because you're _ The Harry Potter_," she said, emphasizing the title as though mimicking someone. "But better safe than sorry, especially if we're going to be Apparating back and forth to Hogwarts."

Ron caught Tom's gaze and rolled his eyes; Tom returned the gesture after a beat.

"It's fine," Tom said soothingly. "Maybe Professor McGonagall will let me Floo to the Ministry once classes are settled, so I can get licensed." He glanced around, noticing for the first time that one of their group was missing, and said, "Where's Neville, by the way?"

"Oh, he decided to go get the Prefect car ready, though I'm not sure that it really needs any preparation. I think he's just nervous about being Head Boy." Hermione said.

"Boy am I glad that we decided not to be proper Prefects this year," Ron said with a grin.

"Yes, well, we've just had a stressful year, and we weren't even at Hogwarts for any of it. It didn't feel right to take Prefect positions, or for me to be Head Girl when Professor—I mean, Headmistress—McGonagall offered it, after that," Hermione said nervously. "At least, I wouldn't have felt very good about having the title. People probably want to give us all sorts of things, simply because we helped defeat Voldemort."

Tom thought privately that, even though none of them were Slytherins, it did not make much sense for them to refuse titles and accolades for things they had actually done. But perhaps Hermione was right, and the burden of such a title would detract from the calm, peaceful year they wanted.

Ron slung his arm around Hermione's shoulders and said, "You don't have to defend yourself to me, Hermione! I'm just looking forward to a nice, relaxed school year where I get to spend time with my friends and not have to worry about some evil bloke who's trying to kill Harry and all of us."

As they'd been talking, the platform had begun to fill up with people. Tom felt rather than actually saw the heavy feeling of many curious gazes on him. It was different, being Harry. Tom Riddle, later Lord Voldemort, had always commanded a certain sort of attention—namely, one of awe and fear. A majority of the people on the platform who were gawking at Harry Potter, the Chosen One, were the sort of gormless idiots who only had one setting: mindless staring. Tom, who had always seen being famous as a good thing, was beginning to understand Harry's aversion to fame a little better.

"Hey, I'm going to go find a compartment," Tom said, finally fed up with feeling like a zoo animal.

Ron glanced around at the crowd, as though he hadn't noticed it. "I don't blame you, mate, but my parents are coming to say hello before we board, so we'll join you in a bit?"

"I want to ask Mr. Weasley about the Apparition license," added Hermione. "And I wanted to see Ginny before we head off, too. I still can't believe she's skipping her NEWTs to play for the Holyhead Harpies."

"She got an excellent offer before she even graduated, of course she was going to take it," Ron said proudly.

Tom didn't particularly want to run into Ginny given the chat they'd had the last time he'd seen her. He gestured vaguely over his shoulder at the train. "I'm going to go now."

"Alright! Save us a compartment." Hermione darted in for a quick hug, which Tom readily returned. They broke apart and Tom gratefully headed off on his own to find a place to finally get some time alone. Since he had no luggage, he simply stepped onto the train and began a slow walk towards the back end.

Since most people were still down on the platform with their families, Tom was easily able to find himself an empty compartment. He settled into a compartment at random and glanced out the window. As he did so, he saw a small child pointing excitedly at him. The pointing rapidly dissolved into frantic waving when the child noticed that he was looking back.

Tom quickly re-stood, exited the compartment, and crossed the aisle to the side of the train that did not look out on the populated side of the platform. For good measure, he spelled the door with a Notice-Me-Not Charm to prevent people from accidentally barging in and disrupting his peace, and yanked all the blinds down as well.

For a moment he considered giving the charm a blanket effect, but then decided it wasn't worth the lecture he'd get when Hermione did eventually find him, so he keyed Neville, Ron, and Hermione into the charm as exceptions.

Reassured that his privacy was secure, Tom settled into a new seat and reached into his bag to pull out a book. He was rummaging for the one he wanted when he thought he heard a sudden _ thud_. Tom quickly looked up to see what had happened, his wand slipping into his hand as he did so.

He emitted an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak when he saw there was suddenly a whole entire woman in front of him. She had certainly not been there when he'd sat down.

The woman had bleach-blonde hair that was carefully arranged into tight little ringlets, and she was wearing quite a bit of makeup and jewellery. She peered at him through her jeweled eyeglasses, her expression unnervingly ravenous. Her appearance felt vaguely familiar to Tom, but he couldn't quite figure out why.

"Harry Potter," greeted the woman silkily. She leaned forward on her elbows, displaying an unseemly amount of cleavage. "We meet again. My, my, you have certainly come a long way since our last little chat." She wiggled her fingers at Tom in a way that entirely failed to entice him or convince him that she was harmless.

"Hello," Tom said hesitantly.

"Now, no need to be so shy!" she tittered at him in such an exaggerated, simpering fashion that Tom wondered if he could get away with leaving for a third compartment. "We've been very good friends, haven't we, Harry? A bit of a give and take, certainly, but in the end it's all water under the bridge."

She shot him a dazzling smile that oozed insincerity. "I would absolutely _ adore _ the chance to catch up with you, and I am sure our dear readers would be frothing at the chance to hear from their vaunted saviour. You won't mind answering a few questions for the Daily Prophet?" she asked sweetly. There was an acid-green quill and parchment hovering in the air next to her. Tom could have sworn that they had also been absent when he'd first entered this compartment.

Unfortunately, Tom couldn't think of a good enough reason to say no. She was definitely familiar and had clearly interacted with Harry at some point. It would be foolish to ask for her name at this point and, even with her name, Tom wasn't sure he'd be able to figure her out. Surely dealing with a reporter, even one as noticeably vile as this one, wouldn't prove to be too difficult. This decided, Tom nodded his head yes.

"Excellent," she replied, the word like a throaty purr. Tom repressed a shudder as she continued, "This is Rita Skeeter reporting for the Daily Prophet, here with the Chosen One, our saviour, Harry James Potter on September 1st, 1998."

Now _ that _ name, Tom did know, and there was a dawning sense of horror coming over him as the lipsticked smile of the witch in front of him stretched to nightmarish proportions.

* * *

01 September, 1998

**HARRY POTTER TRIUMPHANT**

_ By the _ Daily Prophet's _ Gossip Correspondent, Rita Skeeter_.

It has been mere months since the course of the Wizarding World has been changed forever. Nay-sayers might claim that this change has not been for the good of all, but we, dear readers, know better than to follow the trail of slander that has kept the truth from light for so long.

Of course, no witch or wizard knows this truth better than the young man we have seen through childhood to manhood—Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived. Rumours abound following the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but the real story remains unclear.

Harry Potter's acts of heroism do him justice, but just what was he doing in the months leading up to the event now celebrated as 'The Battle of Hogwarts'? How is our dear hero coping with the crippling aftermath of such a shocking and traumatic phenomenon? This story, of tragic sacrifice and love lost, is one I am honoured to tell.

To uncover the true story behind our wizarding saviour, I arranged for an exclusive interview with the elusive Mr. Potter as he was to board the Hogwarts Express for the very last time.

Harry Potter greets me as an old friend as we settle into a private compartment on the Hogwarts Express. However else these past years may have treated young Harry, his strong, handsome features remain unchanged—along with the symbolic lighting scar that represents, to this day, the devastating sacrifices given by the Potter family.

My most loyal readers will recall my previous interviews with the Boy-Who-Lived. Even before he was named a Triwizard Tournament Champion, I could tell this young man was destined for greatness. Harry has always known he could call upon me to deliver the truth to the Wizarding world! We both recall, with great fondness, our past interviews together.

But alas, we must stray from such happier memories to more recent, harrowing events. Those brilliant green eyes of Harry's have faced not only the Killing Curse, but He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in the flesh. Those very eyes reflect unfathomable depths to which we can only hope to comprehend. Fret not, dear readers, for I will aid both yourselves and Harry Potter on this journey of recollection.

Now as far as pressing questions go, there is but one topic on the mind of Wizarding Britain: just what happened at the Battle of Hogwarts? To Harry, the answer is very simple, "Voldemort died, I lived," he says. One must suppose that such a historical event between good and evil does culminate in such a candid statement. But perhaps such modesty masks more significance—this reporter's sources at Hogwarts claim Mr. Potter displayed considerable power against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, magic to the likes of which wizardkind has never seen before.

When pressed for details, Harry is charmingly evasive—"I was just doing the right thing". Perhaps this confirms rumours that such powerful magic was taught to him by his late mentor, Albus Dumbledore (more details on Dumbledore's manipulations can be found in my biography: '_The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_')? Or perhaps Harry found solace under the instruction of another late Headmaster—Severus Snape (subject of interest in my latest book, 'Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?'), recently declared war hero? More tragic still, young Harry makes no mention of his godfather, Sirius Black (the House of Black is notorious for its practices of Dark Magic); perhaps the death of such a close relative hides even darker secrets?

"It was just me and Voldemort," says Harry Potter, eager to claim credit for the defeat that was also his claim to fame as an infant. He adds, "I didn't want there to be anyone else". One assumes this is out of a misguided desire to protect those he holds dear, perhaps a special someone in his life? Or is this declaration of sole responsibility an echo of those numerous articles which claimed our wizarding saviour was an attention-seeking liar? Only the worst would suggest the latter.

Yet the life of a hero is not all it seems. Reports from Gringotts state that the Goblins are furious over the break-in committed by Harry Potter and his cohorts, a break-in which occurred mere hours before the Battle of Hogwarts. "The robbery at Gringotts was necessary," says the Chosen One. According to Harry, only "an item required to defeat" He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was retrieved during the heist. No need to check your vaults—it appears we must trust the Boy-Who-Lived to be honest in his dealings with the Dark Arts.

Goblins are well known for being very unforgiving towards wizards. I ask Harry how he plans on being able to visit his vault, but it would seem that this is the least of the Chosen One's concerns! "I would definitely like to work on improving relations between goblins and wizards," says Harry Potter. "Clearly both goblins and Gringotts as a whole are vital to both our economy and community." Could this pro-goblin stance ignite another goblin war on the heels of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror? This reporter surely hopes not.

Speaking of reconciliation, I turn the topic of our conversation to one that has recently garnered quite a bit of media attention—the post-mortem pardon of the late Headmaster Severus Snape. Harry has little to say on the subject of his old Potions Professor, claiming, "No comment." This vague response may or may not confirm a number of other rumours circulating as to how young Harry viewed Severus Snape as a father figure during his time at Hogwarts. Tragically, Harry Potter has known little of positive parental role models, but one would not be so callous as to suggest this has affected his ability to find love.

Reported ex-girlfriend Guinevere Weasley has been scouted for the Holyhead Harpies. Our broken-hearted hero, strong in the face of such devastation, claims that he and Miss Weasley parted on "good terms" and remain "close friends". And yet, there are those who would suggest that Miss Weasley's desire to flee the Chosen One's affections is a sign of her mental instability and inability to handle fame. It is true that professional Quidditch players have been known to suffer intense lapses in judgement from the intense strain of their professions. Regardless, we at the Daily Prophet wish Guinevere the best of luck in her endeavours.

Despite such a poor outlook for his romantic future, Harry Potter has grand plans for the wizarding world now that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has been defeated by his hand. Following the restoration of Hogwarts, the Chosen One has declared the school as "a haven for all Muggleborns who were displaced during the war". Truly such generosity warms the heart of this reporter, who urges anyone seeking aid to contact Hogwarts' Headmistress.

Lastly, Harry Potter wishes for us to know that "the Wizarding world is entering a great period of change, and we have an incredible opportunity to achieve lasting peace if we can put aside our prejudices". Such inspiring, heartfelt words from our young saviour. Perhaps Harry Potter has aspirations to become our Minister for Magic? With both He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Albus Dumbledore gone, one wonders if the Chosen One plans to step into the power vacuum left in the wake of this devastating war! But young Harry states he has no plans for office, and wishes to resume his childhood dream of "becoming an Auror".

With our interview thus concluded, I bid Harry a fond farewell with the hope that we shall converse again soon. As always, it is a delight to be requested for such an intimate, personal interview. Let us hope that our next gathering will be on a much happier note—namely the Ministry-hosted ceremony upon which the Chosen One and his fellow associates will be awarded Orders of Merlin for their efforts in the war against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This event, of course, shall be covered by yours truly. Stay tuned for my thrilling article titled: _ Dumbledore's Army Reunited_, expected on November 30th.

* * *

Finally, after a seemingly interminable period of watching eleven-year olds sit under the Sorting Hat, the feast was about to begin. Tom was well and truly used to concepts such as 'hunger' and 'thirst' now, and he had not appreciated having to delay solving those problems. The long journey to Hogwarts had gone by much faster than he had expected.

Headmistress McGonagall was concluding the Sorting Ceremony and saying a few words about the war, but Tom's mind was solely focused on when the food would arrive. Even as a child, he'd always been very fond of the food served at Hogwarts. There was nothing else quite like sitting under the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling while you ate your delicious mashed potatoes.

She concluded her brief statements with a promise to continue after they were fed and comfortable, leaving the student body in anticipation of the feast that was still yet to arrive. Then, wonderfully, food at last began to appear upon the table.

Tom was in the middle of enthusiastically loading up his plate with food when there was a burst of sound from the skylight. Scores of owls entered the Great Hall, swarming the ceiling, and generally causing a nuisance. He groaned and paused the arduous task of serving himself in order to cast a shield over his food. Most owls he'd met were too polite to have an accident while indoors, but it would only take one nasty owl to ruin a meal.

A particularly rambunctious owl stopped in front of Hermione, shaking its leg at her. As she relieved it of its burden, she said, "I wonder what all this is about? It's only the first day of school, and I would've thought that most people would be too occupied with the idea of being free from the shadow of Voldemort to do anything special-edition newspaper worthy…"

Hermione trailed off into silence as she unfolded the paper, her eyes landing on the headline. She was frozen in place for the longest time, not even reading the article, just staring at the byline. Then she flipped it over and held the paper out accusingly towards Tom. Tom groaned as he caught sight of the headline, thinking back to the disastrous interview he'd given on the Hogwarts Express.

After Rita Skeeter had finally left him in peace, Tom had come to the realization that he needed to organize Harry's memories, and he needed to do it as soon as possible. Lack of immediate access to the memories was going to give him away eventually if he continued to put the task off any longer. So after Ron and Hermione had rejoined him, Tom had mentioned that he hadn't slept very well the night before and wanted to take a nap.

Of course as soon as he had said that, Hermione had conjured a pillow and blanket for him. And then she had continued to fuss until he was laid comfortably across one of the seats.

This gesture had caused him to feel a horrible pang of guilt. He had been going to access Harry's memories in order to deceive them all, and there they were, unknowingly, ridiculously nice to him. Then Tom had realized that line of thinking was likely to lead nowhere productive, and so he had pushed it away in favor of finally delving into Harry's memories.

At first, there had been so much to look at that Tom had worried even the lengthy train to Hogwarts would not be enough time to sort through it all. Tom had looked into room after room, passing through hallway after hallway, opening memories up and looking through them. An indeterminate amount of time had passed as Tom attempted to gain an understanding of Harry's mind, and then something had finally clicked.

Harry didn't organize his memories in the same logical way Tom did—with clearly labelled dates and names. No, Harry was an emotional creature, and that meant everything was organized by _ feeling_. There were rooms of happiness, of time spent with friends and chosen family. There were trunks filled with sadness, of memories stowed and locked away in the hopes that they would be forgotten. There was a cupboard that shivered violently and reeked of fear.

It felt wrong to be here, in this place, viewing these things. None of this was his, none of it had been meant for him. Tom felt that, somehow, his presence was sullying the memories Harry had left behind. The new, endless reservoir of guilt that had been created inside of Tom at the Battle of Hogwarts lapped persistently against the edges of his consciousness.

Tom had looked inside of the room Harry had filled with love and felt like a traitor.

Shaken, he had reminded himself that he had set a task and that he had to see it through. But he couldn't quite bring himself to tear down the rooms Harry had crafted, to dismantle the structure that represented Harry Potter at both his best and his worst. So Tom left the rooms and the trunks and the cupboard in tact, only shuffling memories about here and there into their appropriate containers.

The process was faster than he had expected once he had uncovered the method to the chaotic madness of Harry's mind. Tom had found that memories moved easily down the hallways to where they needed to be, that he was able to soak in the sensations of love, fear, and hate without losing himself entirely. There was a large hall filled with purely Quidditch memorabilia, a small room with Gryffindor decorations hung up, and a wide staircase with twinkling fairy lights wrapped around the railings.

It was, Tom had realized, almost beautiful.

With a lingering melancholy, Tom had tucked away the remaining stray memories into their rightful places. There had been no sense of accomplishment at having completed the task, merely the feeling that he had at last sought out a kind of closure he hadn't realized he'd been missing.

Hermione let out a sudden shriek of outrage, startling Tom out of his reverie. It was then that he realized, with some trepidation, that he had not answered Rita's questions entirely accurately. And, his brain helpfully added, all of those incorrect facts had probably been printed directly in the newspaper for Hermione to read.

He fervently hoped that Skeeter had focused heavily on things he had responded accurately to. Otherwise he was sure that Hermione, Ron, and the others would be suspicious about the 'truths' that Tom had quite literally made up in an ultimately futile attempt to get the vile reporter to get bored and leave him alone.

"Harry, what is this?" Hermione asked finally, her face still somewhat flushed as she set the paper angrily down upon the table.

Tom coughed nervously. "Uh, I ran into Rita Skeeter today. Can I read what she said?"

Hermione handed him the paper, a stern expression on her face. Tom read in silence, all too aware of Hermione's scrutiny as he did so. While most of Skeeter's article was clearly exaggerated, there didn't seem to be too much that was terribly inaccurate. Actually, the fact that she had gone out of her way to be so outlandish in her descriptions gave Tom an idea of how to spin this.

He made a disappointed noise and said, "She can't do anything right can she?" Tom rolled his eyes deliberately. "I definitely said a lot more ridiculous things than she mentioned in the article. I even went off for a bit about how we broke into Gringotts mostly to rescue that poor dragon, and that we considered starting a Society for the Promotion of Dragonish Welfare. But she didn't even mention it!"

"But, Harry, why did you even give an interview in the first place?"

Tom shrugged. "I did it once to announce that Voldemort was back," he said defensively. "It seemed poetic, in a way, to do the same thing to announce that he's gone now. Well, the same thing but also the complete opposite, since the last time we went to her for her truth-telling and this time I was hoping to lie outright. But now she's gone and told mostly the truth anyways, so that's a bummer."

"Wait, hand over the paper," Ron demanded, holding his hand out. "I want to know what's going on."

Hermione rolled her eyes and handed the paper over to him. "Yes," Hermione said. "You did give her an interview before, but that was under very controlled circumstances! This was completely different. She's gone and done one of her hatchet jobs!" Huffing, Hermione stared angrily off into the distance over Tom's shoulder, then snapped her gaze back to him. "How did she even arrange for your interview?"

Tom was actually rather embarrassed about the answer to this question. "She cornered me in the compartment I was in. Since she was there already, I thought I might as well have some fun by lying outrageously. I'm not sure you heard me, Hermione, but seriously—the Society for the Promotion of Dragonish Welfare? It's hilarious. It's a real shame she didn't include that bit in her article."

"I cannot believe the audacity of that woman to corner you on the train. I mean," Hermione paused to correct herself, "I _ can _ believe it, I just don't want to."

Tom shrugged and said, "It was fine."

"Sure it was, Harry," Ron said sarcastically, still absently reading the article.

"I'm just saying," Hermione persisted, "that she shouldn't have cornered you like that and forced you to give an interview. But I suppose the way you handled it wasn't the worst."

Tom dramatically put his hand to his chest and said, "Not the worst? Whatever did I do to deserve such praise."

Hermione shoved at him gently with her shoulder and grinned.

Ron finally set the paper down. "Harry's right. The article would've been a lot better if she'd focused more on the Society for the Promotion of Dragonish Welfare."

"If you two aren't very careful with what you say right now, I will bring the S.P.E.W. badges back, and this time I _ will _make you wear them," Hermione said with a hard look at both of them.

Ron raised his hands in supplication and Tom quickly followed suit.

"Alright, alright, we'll drop it. So what else did you say that didn't make the final cut?" Ron asked Tom.

Tom's mind raced as he tried to think of a suitable lie. "I may have said that we spent several weeks fishing in Majorca trying to find the lost city of Atlantis."

"Fishing. For Atlantis," Hermione said skeptically.

"Well, it was supposed to sound ridiculous," Tom returned defensively. "How was I supposed to know it wasn't the kind of idiotic lie she was looking for?"

"That's where your mistake was," Hermione said, taking her newspaper back and rolling it up. "Rita is too savvy with her career to print ridiculous lies that would make her sound just as ridiculous as the lies themselves."

"Better luck next time, mate," Ron said sympathetically.

"That's true," Tom said thoughtfully. "Next time I'll make sure to say a bunch of contradictory, yet plausible things. Just to see what happens."

Hermione lightly slapped both of them with her copy of the Prophet. "There will not be a next time! You're simply lucky that she didn't say anything too terrible about you—if there is a next time, you might end up being painted as—as some kind of Casanova!"

Having revisited Harry's memories only hours earlier, Tom realized that this outburst was because Hermione was sore about being falsely painted as a 'scarlet woman' back in her fourth year. Her concern was touching, actually. She didn't want him—er, Harry—to go through the ordeal of being mocked in the papers again.

"You really think I can avoid another interview with Rita Skeeter for the rest of my life?" Tom asked dubiously.

"Well…" Hermione trailed off.

"Listen," Tom said firmly. "She's pretty much unavoidable. And evil. So I may as well have some fun with her and just make up a load of tripe every time she tries to corner me."

"Wait," Ron said slowly, "that sounds a lot like all the shite we made up for Trelawney's class. Does that mean that Divination was actually useful? We've finally got a practical application for it!"

Tom and Hermione stared at Ron for a moment.

"Let me think about that for a second," Hermione said mockingly. "Hmm. No."

Ron shrugged. "Ah well, it was worth a shot."

"Besides," Tom added, "I'm sure you must have some nifty spells to screen my mail." Even if she didn't, Tom knew where to find some books that would, and he could sign them out from the library for her under the guise of having asked Pince for advice. "We'll be able to get rid of the truly nasty stuff before it even gets to me. Then it's truly no harm no foul," Tom said with a hopeful smile.

"I suppose," Hermione allowed slowly.

"You're still worrying too much, Hermione," Ron said thickly, his mouth now full of food. "Just let Harry have some fun with it."

Hermione swatted him with her paper again, and Ron made an offended noise in response. They stared at each other for what seemed like an eon, then promptly dissolved into laughter.

Tom grinned at them both, then refocused on his dinner. It was high time he properly did something about his whole hunger problem, after all.

* * *

A/N:

**tom, consulting his brain:** harry did skeeter interview?  
**brain:** yea it happened  
**tom:** ok full speed ahead

If you're reading and enjoying these chapters, please leave a review! It really encourages us to keep writing :)


	8. Tom and Draco Compare Wands

_**CHAPTER SEVEN  
**_

**_Tom and Draco Compare Wands  
_**

* * *

Once they had all finished eating, their plates were cleared from the tables as usual. Then Headmistress McGonagall stood to address the hall again, peering out across the crowd of students over her spectacles. Tom gave her his full attention, curious to see what she'd have to say. It was, officially, Minerva McGonagall's first proper year as Headmistress of the school.

"If I could please have everyone's attention," McGonagall paused, waiting for silence to fall. Then she drew herself up to her full height, her gaze touching upon each and every student that was seated in the Great Hall. "Thank you. I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to all of you who are here today. To those of you who supported Hogwarts in its time of need, and to those of you who have returned here once again, thus entrusting us with your safety and education.

"It is my promise to you all that, in the wake of the devastating losses we have suffered, that I will do my utmost to support any student who wishes for aid moving forwards." Her usually stern expression grew softer, more weary as she continued to speak. "Whether that be through providing extra classroom hours or Floo access to Mind Healers, I encourage all of you to come directly to me with any ideas or concerns you may have.

"Also, in our effort to recover from the tragedy of the past year, the first week of classes will be dedicated to examinations." The student body groaned and grumbled at her, but she continued as if nothing had happened at all, "Different students will have retained different amounts of learning from the past year. Examinations will help to determine what level each student is at. This is to establish benchmarks for your starting points, and to ensure that your classes are grouped by ability rather than age."

Then McGonagall turned in the direction of the new staff seated at the table. "Additionally, I'd like to introduce three new members to our faculty this year. Please welcome your new professors with the same respect and courtesy you would offer myself. Firstly, we have our new Muggle Studies professor—"

Tom, who had forgotten about the new professors, followed her pivot as she began to single out the new members of the faculty. One of the new professors was dressed entirely in casual Muggle attire, and Tom was so distracted by this anomaly that he forgot to pay attention to the name. It was too late, however, as the professor was already standing eagerly, waving a cheerful hand at the crowd of students.

The Headmistress continued on to the next professor and said, "Defense Against the Dark Arts will be taught by Professor Nettle. She will also take over my position as Head of House Gryffindor."

The professor's head snapped up, and a startled look crossed her face before she hastily got to her feet and waved at them all. She was dressed neatly in maroon robes that had a fascinating shine to them, and wore thick-framed glasses that matched her robes in hue.

"And lastly," McGonagall said, "my former position as Transfiguration professor will be taken over by Professor Whittle."

The third professor stood up too quickly, a bright smile on her face as she waved twice in succession before dropping back into her seat. She, too, wore glasses—the half-frame kind that held the lenses from the top only.

The students applauded politely to each new addition, and McGonagall waited for silence to fall one final time before she resumed her speech. "To further ensure that you, the students, are safe here, I will be conducting quarterly reviews of _all _professors to ensure that they are doing their jobs to Hogwarts standards, and are not posing a danger to the students. Remember that if you have any concerns at all, my door will always be open to you."

McGonagall smiled at them all, then. It was a genuine gesture of the loyalty and affection she held for this school. Harry had always been fond of her, and Tom thinks he can see why. "Now, it is late and I am sure that you all are quite tired now, so off to bed. First years, please follow your Prefects out of the Great Hall to your dormitories."

There was a thunderous rumble as all of the students rose to their feet at once. Tom had half-risen as well, only stopping when Hermione reached out to grab his hand. He looked at her in confusion, only to see that she'd grabbed Ron's hand as well, clearly intending to keep them both seated.

"There's hardly any use in fighting through the crowd. Let's just sit here until there are fewer people trying to get out," Hermione said reasonably.

Tom and Ron both shrugged, resettling into their seats.

"Anyone have a deck of cards?" Hermione asked hopefully. "A nice game of poker would be just the thing to pass the time."

"No!" Ron exclaimed, horrified. He'd only just gotten his shoes back yesterday, after Hermione had taken pity on the fact that he didn't have any access to funds with which to buy a new pair. Ron took a deep breath and then continued, in a slightly calmer voice, "I'm really good with just sitting here and talking instead."

"Yeah, what's wrong with simply enjoying each other's company," Tom added, well and truly afraid that this time he would lose a lot more to Hermione than just his money and his dignity.

"I can clearly see what you're doing, and that's fine. Someday you'll have forgotten how it felt to lose so miserably, and you will foolishly agree to play again. Then I'll mop the floor with you, and the cycle will repeat," Hermione concluded, a vicious and delighted smile on her face.

* * *

The next morning they were up entirely too early, in Tom's opinion.

It was their last 'first day' of being students back at Hogwarts, so Tom thought that they ought to have been given some slack. Instead, Tom was awoken by the sounds of Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean getting ready for the day as they bustled around their shared dorm room.

Since McGonagall had said their first week would be spent taking placement exams, Tom assumed that this meant they would be receiving an exam schedule at breakfast rather than their usual class schedules. This meant that it was unlikely for any of them to actually have any morning classes today, and therefore it was a complete waste of time to be awake at such an early hour.

As he readied himself for the day, Tom considered how he should perform on said placement exams. He was confident that, if he wanted to, he could easily place out of every single class here, including the ones that Harry hadn't been registered for. But the main sticking point was that Harry could not, and therefore would not be expected to do so. To do too well would set off suspicions about his magic, especially if it followed on the heels of Rita Skeeter's very flattering article about him.

Harry could have tested out of Defense, seeing that was his best subject and his only 'Outstanding' OWL grade. But given everything Hermione had said to them about this being their last year at Hogwarts together, he found he was reluctant to do so. Perhaps a month ago he would have jumped at the chance to avoid spending more time with Harry's friends than he had to, but after reviewing Harry's memories of them and spending time in their company, he no longer felt inclined to escape them at any given moment. Actually, he wanted to avoid anything that would reduce the time they'd get to spend together. Tom couldn't quite shake the paranoia that someone was going to find out the truth about him, and so he wanted to enjoy this peaceful year at Hogwarts just as much as Harry's friends did.

Not to mention, Defense had always been Harry's favourite subject. So it didn't seem right to forgo the chance to take it one last time. Even he, Tom Riddle, had once wished to teach this class at Hogwarts, and Defense would be the one class where he could excel easily and not be questioned about it. So, he decided, he would take Defense Against the Dark Arts, even if it meant having to deliberately answer questions wrong on his placement exam. And he would take the rest of Harry's classes as well, because it was necessary in order to maintain his cover.

Decision settled, Tom examined his reflection in the mirror. He still wasn't used to seeing 'himself', but he'd worked on his natural urge to flinch away from it. The green eyes and lightning scar in the mirror belonged to someone else, but that didn't mean he needed to be afraid of them. That feeling of guilt that resulted from seeing that face in the mirror, however, would like stay with him for a while yet.

Tom brushed his teeth and washed his face quickly. Washing and brushing were robotic tasks that required little mental effort on his part. Usually his morning process was a lot faster than everyone else's. This was mostly because there wasn't much that could be done with the disaster on his head that should not really have been called hair. Tom had deplored its inability to lay flat on so many occasions that he'd eventually just given up. So that meant today he had left it alone, hoping for the best.

The first half of his morning ritual now completed, Tom walked back to the dorm room and pulled on his Hogwarts robes over his pyjamas. There wasn't much sense in picking a proper outfit when it was too cold to take the robes off. He just had to hope no one would look too closely and realize his shirt and pants had stripes on them.

Looking around, Tom saw that he was the first one out the door despite being the last to wake up. Shrugging, he grabbed his bag off of the top of his trunk and went downstairs to wait in the common room.

As he was leaving, he noted that Ron and Neville were still only part way through the process of getting ready. Tom knew that if one of them did not make an appearance soon, Hermione would come up and make absolutely sure they were all awake. This type of awakening typically involved a traumatic amount of noise and light as she yanked the curtains open, something he wanted to avoid at this early hour. So obviously the only way to prevent further permanent damage to his retinas was to head down early, thus sparing the rest of his roommates from death-by-Hermione.

Hermione was already seated in an armchair with a book propped open in front of her when Tom came into the room. The rest of the common room was strangely empty of students considering it was the first day back. He sat down next to her and said, "Good morning," as he dug in his bag for his own book to read.

She returned his greeting without looking up, engrossed as she was in her reading. The title of the book was in a language he vaguely knew, but Tom wasn't feeling up to deciphering it, so he left her alone. He was mostly glad to have the chance to read without interruption.

Neville showed up not long after Tom had started on a new chapter, but Neville simply joined them in sitting quietly while they all continued to wait for Ron.

When Ron finally did show up, Hermione briskly closed her book and got to her feet. Tom and Neville automatically followed suit.

"I was just about to come up to hurry you along," Hermione informed Ron, who looked offended.

"There's still loads of time, Hermione! I don't know why we have to go down so early, anyways. We probably don't even have anything this morning," Ron said, slightly sullen as he fell into place next to Hermione. Tom noted that their arms were very close, their hands nearly touching, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. How Harry had suffered through years of those two orbiting around each other, he had no idea.

"But if we do have an exam this morning, then we'll be needing every extra moment we have so we can review!" Hermione said, frantic.

Neville patted her on the arm soothingly and said, "You don't need to get perfect marks on these exams. They're just placement exams, so if you do too well, you might not need to take any classes at all."

Hermione looked horrified at this possibility. "You mean, they may not let me take all my classes if I do too well on these exams? But—but I've been looking forward to doing this last year _properly_—"

"Hermione," Ron said placatingly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, "Hermione, you have nothing to worry about. You know the material well enough to just pick the grade you want, alright?"

Blushing, Hermione smiled at Ron in a dazed sort of way. She had probably been about to say something equally sappy in response, but whatever it was would have to wait. There was a large crowd of students standing about in four orderly queues in the Entrance Hall. The noises of the chattering students, growing louder as they approached, thoroughly cut off sappy moment between Ron and Hermione as they approached the throng.

Some of the students were dressed in their school robes, namely the younger years, but Tom could see a good number of the older students were dressed in casual robes or even Muggle-wear. Scanning the lines, Tom assumed that the four queues were organized so students could obtain something from their respective Heads of House.

As they joined the line of presumed-Gryffindors, Hermione asked someone that Tom had absolutely no recollection of ever seeing before what they were queueing up for.

The student responded, "Headmistress McGonagall decided that it would be best to let everyone know what their schedules are as soon as possible so we can plan our time accordingly. Exams are stressful enough as it is without adding timetable conflicts on top of them."

"Oh, I like that a lot," Hermione said. "So if we have an exam this morning, we'll know right away, and not be left in suspense throughout the entirety of breakfast."

Tom nodded in agreement. The sooner he found out, the sooner he would be able to start figuring out how much of the exam content Harry would be expected to know.

"I don't know, I think I'd prefer the blissful ignorance," Ron countered dubiously.

Neville said, "I don't know, I think I'm with Hermione on this. I'd like to know what we're getting ourselves into."

Ron sighed dramatically. "I can't believe you've all teamed up on me like this. I feel so betrayed."

The line was moving fairly rapidly now, so Ron's declaration of betrayal received no response.

Professor Nettle was at the front of the Gryffindor line, asking for each student's name as they approached. Once given, a single piece of paper with the name was summoned from a thick stack. Nettle's system seemed to involve wandless magic via staring intently at the stack of paper until one flew out of it. She verified that the names matched, reading the name on the sheet aloud to the student, then handed it over.

The entire process was so mind-numbingly boring that when it was finally Tom's turn to say his name, he stuttered and almost forgot to answer as 'Harry'.

"Name?" asked Professor Nettle.

Tom, pausing entirely too long for such a simple question, said, "Harry. Er—Harry Potter." Then he resisted the urge to kick himself in the shin for being such a complete idiot. He didn't think that Harry would have ever been stupid enough to forget his own name.

Thankfully, Nettle hardly reacted to this horrible blunder. It was surprising, actually, given the fact that he was both the hailed 'Chosen One' and the subject of a recently published, extremely exaggerated news article. The only sign she gave that he was anything other than a perfectly ordinary student was a brief eyebrow raise as she read his name back to him.

Tom accepted his exam schedule from Professor Nettle with great relief and rejoined Hermione just inside the Great Hall. Perhaps the new Professor's DADA class would be better than he had hoped, since it seemed that she was intending to be unbiased. Tom didn't think he would survive an entire year's worth of Defense classes if his professor was another bootlicker like Slughorn was.

The unfortunate reminder that he would have to endure another year of Potions with Slughorn was enough to put a damper on the entire day, actually. If only Snape hadn't been so horrible to Harry, perhaps Tom could have tested out of Potions purely just to escape Slughorn's brownnosing. Now he would be forced to endure another year's worth of invitations to Slug Club gatherings.

Tom and Hermione hovered for a few moments as Ron and Neville received their schedules. Unsurprisingly, Hermione was already pouring over her own schedule, an intense look of anxiety on her face. Then, as Ron and Neville rejoined them, they walked over to the Gryffindor table for breakfast as a group.

Tom was glad that they had frequently sat at the Gryffindor table during the summer. Any unnaturalness he felt over sitting at the 'wrong' table—a non-Slytherin table, namely—had already had a chance to wear off. The novelty of being surrounded entirely by students in red- and gold-accented clothing was similarly a new norm that he had eventually come to accept. While he missed his green-trimmed robes, he had to admit that the atmosphere at the Gryffindor table was welcoming, even if it was a bit too rowdy for his tastes. He'd never thought he would find himself as a Gryffindor, but at least it wasn't the nightmare situation he had originally envisioned.

Once seated, Tom immediately examined his schedule and was irritated to see that Hermione had been right about getting up early. Potions was listed as Monday morning's first period, which meant it was their first period today. Thankfully, the rest of the exams were spread out over the course of the rest of the week, so Tom didn't have to worry about having too much on any day.

"Potions!" Hermione said in a tone of horror. "I haven't brewed anything in _ages_. This is horrible, this is the worst subject they could have picked for us to have first."

Ron was looking at his own schedule, face rather pale. "Do you think if we do badly enough they'll send us back to sixth-year Potions? They wouldn't do that, would they?"

"I've only got Herbology, Charms, and Defence," said Neville, who was now helping himself to some toast and butter.

Hermione and Ron stared at Neville, incredulity and jealousy clear on each of their respective faces.

"What?" Neville said, though it was obvious he was enjoying himself. "You're all the ones who decided to take the classes you're taking."

Tom couldn't help it; he snorted loudly at the tableau in front of him. "I think if you keep this up, Hermione will take her exam-anxiety out on you and murder you in your sleep," Tom said to Neville.

Neville turned to grin at him. "I don't know about that, plotting murder means less time to study, isn't that right, Hermione?"

Hermione, now scowling, looked as though she wished Neville was sitting on her side of the table so she could hit him. "If we're all done picking on me," she began haughtily, "I'd like to have us enjoy our first breakfast of the school year together."

Ron had already filled half his plate, Tom noted, and was now looking at Tom to see if he would do the same thing. Tom reached out and began to load up on eggs and hashbrowns. It would be bloody difficult to ever forget to eat when all of Harry's friends seemed so intent on making sure that he was remembering to do it. Now satisfied that Tom wasn't going to forgo a meal, Ron began to dig into his own meal with fervor.

"Actually, let's compare our schedules," Hermione said, snatching up Tom's as she spoke. "I need to figure out when to plan our study sessions."

"Great," Ron said, sounding genuinely relieved that she was going to arrange it all for him. "Just make sure there's time for Quidditch."

Tom didn't much care about Quidditch, but he made an agreeable noise as was expected of him, and then he began to eat. Hermione started to argue that there would be plenty of time for Quidditch later on in the year, but Tom didn't think it was too relevant, so he tuned most of it out. Still, as he chewed on his scrambled eggs, he couldn't help but think that he was forgetting something.

* * *

Hermione was still pestering them with last minute Potions trivia by the time they arrived in the dungeons to take their exam. Tom had no idea where she had retrieved the textbook she was now referencing. Maybe she just made a habit of carrying all her books around with her everywhere?

"Hey, Harry." Someone was nudging him.

Tom looked up to see Ron was giving him a significant look. He wasn't sure what this look was supposed to convey, so he asked, "What?"

"Malfoy's looking at you."

Huh. Tom resisted the urge to glance obviously over his shoulder at wherever Malfoy was. "What does he... look like?" Tom asked. "I mean, does he look angry?"

"No," Ron admitted. "He stopped now, though. D'you think he plans to try something during the exam?"

"He'd be stupid to try," Hermione sniffed. "Everyone knows the only reason the Malfoys didn't end up in Azkaban is because his mother testified under Veritaserum that she'd helped Harry."

Just then Slughorn came into view, and Tom ducked behind Ron, who was taller and therefore solid protection from Slughorn's brownnosing gaze. Hopefully he wouldn't have to conduct his entire exam with Slughorn peering over his shoulder.

Slughorn greeted all the students warmly, then gave them directions on how to proceed. Tom kept his head down as much as possible and shuffled over to a cauldron, trying to brace himself. He'd have to figure out how to make a _nearly _perfect Potion without accidentally exploding anything in the process.

Next, Slughorn revealed a set of questions and instructions on the chalkboard at the front of the classroom. Tom could hear Hermione cursing quietly from where she was sitting to his left, and then the entire room was in exam mode and Tom needed all of his available focus on hand.

Surprisingly, the exam went by about as well as Tom could have expected, with no interruptions from either Slughorn or Malfoy.

Hermione and Ron fretted over the exam all the way back to the Gryffindor Common Room, leaving Tom to trail behind them, his own thoughts consumed with worry that, perhaps, he had performed _too _well. But Slughorn thought Harry was some kind of Potions genius, so it shouldn't be too strange for him to perform above average.

After stopping at their dorms to pick up their textbooks, they went and spent lunch in the kitchens, grabbing a quick bite to eat before heading to the library at Hermione's behest. Neville was already there, DADA textbooks scattered across the table he was occupying.

"I'm not worried about the practical," Neville admitted. "But I think we could all use a refresher on the theory."

So that was what they did, and Tom let Hermione take charge of teaching the theory sections, only interjecting occasionally when he thought Harry might have something to say. Then, finally, it was time for dinner. Tom hadn't thought he would have ever preferred meals to studying, but sitting through Hermione's lectures on Defense theory was more a test of his patience than anything else.

"I'm going to go grab a book from our dorm," Tom said.

"Didn't you grab them all earlier?" Hermione asked, confused.

"There's just this one, um, I didn't think we'd need it because it's not part of the course material, but there's this bit I think is in it that I want to try and find," Tom lied. The truth was, he was already dreading after dinner, when they would go back to studying things that Tom knew but couldn't say that he knew. Hopefully his excuse would enable him to read something he wanted to read, instead of the same Defense Against the Dark Arts texts that he already knew inside and out.

"Alright mate, see you down there, then." Ron patted him on the back, and then the group walked off, leaving Tom to trudge his way back up to the Gryffindor Tower.

He planned his route so it would take the longest amount of time to walk there. Tom knew that Ron and Hermione would save him food if he was late, and he could always say he got trapped on some moving staircase in the middle of nowhere. So he took a nice, long route full of detours, arrived at Gryffindor Tower, retrieved his book, and took a similarly long-winded route on his way to the Great Hall.

Tom had just turned the corner to one of the main corridors that led to the Great Hall when he saw Draco Malfoy pacing back and forth by one of the doors.

Malfoy looked up at the sound of Tom's footsteps, his expression changing.

Alert now, Tom reached for the wand holstered at his side—and belatedly recalled that it was, in fact, neither his wand nor Harry's wand. It was, he now realized awkwardly, _Malfoy's _wand that he had used during the entirety of his Potions exam.

"Potter," said Malfoy curtly. He held his hands out, palms spread and empty, in a gesture of peace. "Could we talk?"

Tom thought about it. He could certainly take Malfoy Junior in a duel, so he wasn't worried about getting hurt or anything like that. If anything, he was a little curious. Was Malfoy planning to ask for his wand back? What would Harry have done in this situation?

"Sure," said Tom. "But if this is a trick, you'll regret it."

"It's not a trick," Malfoy said quickly. He looked nervous for a second, but then he reigned the emotion back in and said calmly, "I swear I really just want to talk."

Tom stared at Malfoy's eyes for a bit, applying a little Legilimency. Malfoy did have some rudimentary Occlumency shields up, but Tom had passed the threshold for going undetected in the minds of most wizards decades ago. He discerned that Malfoy was being honest, and then withdrew. No need to ruin the surprise of whatever this was going to be about.

Malfoy led them both into an empty, unused classroom and shut the door behind them. Then he turned to Tom, looking extremely reluctant to begin a conversation now that he had the opportunity for one.

"I would like to say," Malfoy started stiffly, "thank you." That last bit came out through gritted teeth, which Tom thought was mildly amusing. "For what you did in the Room of Requirement," Malfoy finished.

"You mean saving your life?" Tom asked rhetorically.

Malfoy clenched his jaw a few times, then relaxed again. "Yes. That."

"Is that all?" Tom asked, feigning a yawn.

"No."

If glares were magic, Tom was sure he would be turned into a statue by now. But Malfoy shifted uncomfortably as he worked up the courage to say whatever it was he had cornered Tom to say, and then added, "I'd like to ask for my wand back."

Tom stared evenly back at Malfoy. Aside from the Elder Wand, Malfoy's wand was the only one that actually worked for Tom. He assumed Malfoy was asking because he needed his wand for the placement exams, but Tom still had to do the rest of Harry's exams, too. And taking all of his exams with the Elder Wand seemed like it would be asking for trouble, namely trouble in the form of more accidentally-overpowered spells. It wasn't that he could only do overpowered spells if he was using the Elder Wand, but it made him more prone to slipping up if he wasn't being extremely careful.

"Potter?" Malfoy pressed, desperation creeping into his voice. "I can pay you for it, if that's what you want. But I know you don't care about money."

"Let me think," Tom said, holding up a hand. "I don't have my old wand anymore, either."

Malfoy stared at him. "Then what in Merlin's name have you been using? People said you were doing all sorts of ridiculous things when you were putting Hogwarts back together. You weren't using _my wand _to do that, were you?" Malfoy actually looked afraid that the answer to this question would be yes.

"No," Tom admitted. "But the one I was using is still not my wand, really. And it won't work well on exams."

"Well, maybe you can get by with it, because at least you have a wand that listens to you!"

Tom glared at him. Malfoy had a lot of nerve to get upset at Tom's wand hoarding. It wasn't as though Harry had asked for all these wands. In fact, Harry had really only wished for there to be a way to repair his old one, but Hermione had told him it was unlikely to happen.

"Come on," Malfoy wheedled. "I'm going to fail all my exams if you don't give it back. You didn't save my life just for me to flunk out of Hogwarts. Malfoys still have connections, I can help you with Goblin treaties or something, whatever noble tripe you're going to do next, I just need my wand back."

Tom sighed. Malfoy was still just a kid, technically, and Tom would feel bad if Malfoy got kicked out of Hogwarts just because Tom didn't want to put a bit more effort into dampening his magic during practicals.

"Fine," said Tom, and he handed it over.

"What happened to your wand, anyways?" Malfoy said curiously, snatching his wand back without saying thank you.

"It got snapped," Tom said, then winced because the memory was painful even though it wasn't his wand.

Malfoy looked thoughtful. "Can I see?"

Tom didn't see the harm in it, so he summoned Harry's wand from his mokeskin pouch and held it out for Malfoy to inspect.

"The core is still intact," Malfoy said, pointing. "If you can find a wandmaker to repair the wood properly, it should still work."

Huh. "How do you know that?" Tom asked.

Malfoy looked uncomfortable again as he said, "Ollivander told me some things, you know, while he was at Malfoy Manor."

"Well, thanks. I guess. I can look into that," Tom said awkwardly.

"Good. So we're even then," Malfoy said, satisfied. "I've got my wand back, and you'll get yours back, too."

Tom felt compelled to point out that it wasn't exactly an even trade, but decided it was in his best interests to leave it be. "Sure," he agreed.

Malfoy nodded once more and then left the room.

The phoenix and holly wand was still in Tom's hand. He looked at it thoughtfully. If the wood was really the only thing that was wrong with it…

Tom set Harry's wand down onto a table and pulled out the Elder Wand. If this didn't work, then nothing would. He aimed the tip of the Elder Wand at where the holly was connected by a single phoenix feather and said, "_Reparo_."

Magic poured down the length of the Elder Wand, resealing the holly with a bright, warm glow. Sparks shot out the end of Harry's wand as it rejoiced at being whole once more. Tom tucked the Elder Wand back into his robes and stared down at the holly wand, apprehensive. What if the wand didn't like him? Or if it recognized him as not-Harry?

Ollivander had said that a wand's loyalty needed to be won. Did Tom count as this wand's owner, or was it still inexplicably linked to Harry Potter?

The wand on the table seemed to sense his hesitation—Tom felt a certain warmth emanating from it, as though it was welcoming him to pick it up.

So he did, and more sparks shot out of the wand tip as he held it up. It was… odd. Tom wasn't sure how to feel about the fact that this wand was giving him its loyalty. But, thankfully, he was certainly late to dinner now, and this gave him an excuse to shove aside that feeling for later.

Tom walked back over to the Great Hall and saw that, as predicted, Ron and Hermione and Neville were all sat together, and had also saved a plate for him.

Smiling, he went to join them, and then said, "You're never going to guess who I ran into…"

* * *

A/N:

**draco:** ok but why am i HERE  
**ghost!harry:** readers want to see us in the same scene together  
**tom:** also because i get to torture u with my insanity, which the authors find amusing

This chapter is brought to you by: Begging for Comments, Part Deux ft. Tom Riddle

**tom, brandishing the elder ****:** give us comments


	9. Truth or Dare

_**CHAPTER EIGHT  
**_

**_Truth or Dare_**

* * *

By the time Friday arrived, Tom was thoroughly done with the entire idea of exams. He was now finally done with his last one, and he had concluded that they were entirely more trouble than he'd originally guessed at. It had been a long, horrible, terrible week trying to figure out how fast was _too _fast. And now, even after all the practice he'd had, he was still no better at making the judgement call.

It turned out that attempting to answer questions deliberately wrong was much, much harder than attempting to answer them correctly. Not to mention he had to also botch some of his Charms and Transfiguration spells, which ought to have been considered an art form all on its own.

He'd ended up erring on the side of 'too fast' for his last exam, Charms. Partly because he no longer had the patience for it, but also because he had settled on some big plans for once they were done, and he wanted to get those plans started.

Even though he now had access to Harry's memories, Tom had spent most of the summer feeling like he was the odd one out every time someone made an inside joke. The inside jokes were annoyingly frequent, because they'd all grown up together and had seen each other through a war together, too. Knowing why they were making a joke wasn't quite the same as being a part of it, and Tom was beginning to feel disjointed whenever he was around Harry's friends, because they were treating him like he was their friend, but he didn't _feel _like he was, and the whole situation was entirely too surreal for his liking.

Now, playing poker together had remedied that surreal gap slightly, and had been a lot of fun to boot. After poker night, not only was he in some of the jokes, he was a part of them. So in the interests of maintaining both his cover and his sanity, he had decided that he wanted to make some more memories like that.

Harry's room of happy recollections was full of literal sunshine, and everything there was so _warm _and _happy_. Tom had never kept any of his memories in a place like that before. Not only had it never occurred to him, but he had never had enough of those types of memories to fill an entire room. So, to that end, he had asked Milley the House Elf to prepare the Room of Requirement for another get together after their last exam.

And this time, most importantly, he had asked her to try getting the alcohol for free.

So on Friday evening after their Charms exam had concluded, Tom had arrived at the Room of Requirement with plenty of time to spare. It seemed that Milley had already come in early to set everything up, because there was already a table filled with snacks and drinks.

It was nearly perfect, he thought to himself, but since he wanted to replicate the circumstances of the poker night as closely as possible, it needed to be absolutely, completely the same. He wanted to maximize the chance of forming more good memories.

So Tom closed his eyes, concentrating as hard as he could on what the Common Room had looked like on the night they'd played poker. When he opened his eyes, the room was practically a perfect duplicate. He surveyed it in satisfaction.

Now that everything was ready for the evening, Tom conjured a piece of paper and a self-inking quill so he could pen a note to the others. He jotted down a brief message that would tell Harry's friends to come to the Room of Requirement. Then Tom scrawled an approximation of Harry's name at the bottom. He squinted at it, trying to scrutinize its accuracy. It seemed alright compared to the memories he had of it, so Tom charmed the letter it to deliver itself and watched it fly out of the room.

While he waited for everyone to show up, Tom examined the options the House Elf had left them to eat and drink. There was a tasty lamb stew that Tom gladly served himself a helping of, and a bowl of premade punch. Tom took a whiff of the punch and discovered that it was strongly alcoholic. He poured himself a glass of the punch and settled into one of the many comfy armchairs scattered by the fireplace.

He took a sip of his drink to taste it. Tom supposed that this punch was tasty enough, but his pumpkin juice mix had been better. The seemingly universal rejection of his pumpkin juice punch was borderline upsetting. Tom was morosely swirling the drink in his glass and still thinking about his pumpkin juice punch when Ron and Neville came into the room.

"That bad, mate?" Ron jokingly asked upon seeing Tom's downcast expression.

Tom set down his drink and jumped up on reflex to greet them. Then he paused. "Wait, where's Hermione?"

They laughed at him, and Neville said, "She's still arguing with Flitwick over the exam. She'll be along soon."

"You know how she is," Ron added. Then he focused on the room around them and added, "So, we're drinking again?"

"Yup, I thought it would be a fun way to celebrate being done with exams," Tom said, sitting back down. He had to wonder if Hermione wasn't conditioning him to expect hugs whenever he saw her. If she was, it was working, because he'd essentially just stood up for no reason at all. Ron and Neville weren't the type to hug him, mostly because they'd just seen him an hour ago, so there was no point in standing any longer than he had to.

"As long as we don't play poker again," Neville said, and walked over to the table to serve himself.

Ron followed suit and added, "I've enjoyed having my shoes back too much to risk losing them again."

Tom hadn't gotten as far as figuring out what they were going to do. If he really thought about it, he probably would have assumed they were going to play poker again. But, since it seemed that option was not on the table, they would have to come up with something else. Truth be told, he was a bit relieved, because he didn't particularly want to risk betting away more of his money. Even if this decision meant that tonight wasn't _exactly _the same as last time, he would stand by it. Or sit by it, if standing became too difficult to manage. With that thought in mind, Tom had another sip of his drink while he watched Ron and Neville debate game ideas.

By the time Hermione made her appearance in the Room of Requirement, Tom was already well on his way to becoming inebriated. Hermione, however, was looking like the cat that got the cream as she approached them.

"Hermione!" Tom exclaimed when he caught sight of her. He was ridiculously pleased to see her. Ron was now talking about the Chudley Cannons, which Tom had little to no interest in or any idea about. Harry probably did, but Tom wasn't about to waste his time trying to store Quidditch facts in his brain when there were more important things to remember.

Tom staggered to his feet, pausing for a moment as the world reoriented itself, then made his way over to greet Hermione with an enthusiastic hug.

She readily returned it and said, "Wow, okay, it's nice to see you too. I see you all got started without me."

Tom guiltily broke the hug and grabbed her hand, tugging her over to the food and drink tables in response.

"So, Hermione, what took you so long to get here?" Neville asked curiously.

The satisfied smile reappeared on Hermione's face as she responded, "I had a concern with one of the exam questions. Of course, I didn't expect it to be perfect seeing as they likely didn't have much time to put them together, but I felt compelled to point out that the second essay question forgot to take Eulalie Hicks' research into account."

"That's our Hermione!" Ron said proudly, mock-toasting her with his drink.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but she was still grinning as she went to examine the table of food and drink. Tom anxiously watched Hermione sniff at the punch bowl. He was worried that if she didn't like it, she would maintain the sobriety she'd kept at their last gathering. He wanted to see Hermione Granger get drunk and he wanted to see it _now _.

When she continued to linger over the punch, Tom finally spoke up and said, "I wasn't the one who made it, so it should taste alright."

"Yeah, it actually tastes good this time!" Ron added cheerfully.

Tom wanted to say something about how his pumpkin juice mix tasted delicious to those with more refined tastes, but then he'd have to explain _why _his tastes were so much more refined, and he clearly couldn't do that without landing himself into a world of trouble.

Hermione then poured herself a tiny bit of punch, much to Tom's relief. He noted that he was not the only one closely watching for her reaction as she sipped at it; Ron and Neville also appeared to be more alert in the wake of this new development. Obviously Tom was not the only one invested in a drunk Hermione.

Hermione rolled her eyes again when she noticed that they were watching her. She set her newly emptied glass down next to the punch bowl. "Before I pour myself a proper glass of this surprisingly excellent punch, does anyone have anything to say about me drinking?"

Tom shook his head. He regretted the motion a moment later, because he had just admitted culpability. Neville and Ron must have also nonverbally declined to say anything, because Hermione went and poured herself a full glass of punch. She served herself a bowl of stew, and then walked over to join Ron and Neville where they were sat in armchairs by the replica of the fireplace.

Belatedly, Tom realized that he was still standing over by the table with no real reason to be there. He went, grabbed a bread roll for himself, and then rejoined the others.

Before too long, they were all done eating, and had each consumed more than just a little alcohol. Having learned his lesson previously, Tom had attempted to pace his drinking this time, and so he wasn't too badly off just yet.

This also meant that he had the good sense to be wary when Hermione suggested a game of truth or dare. However, whatever wariness he had managed to hold onto did not outweigh or overcome the kind of poor decision making that alcohol loved to encourage, because when Ron and Neville agreed to play, Tom did too.

So they all settled into a circle on the floor at Hermione's behest. Tom was seated with Ron on his left, Hermione on his right, and Neville across from him. The original feeling of apprehension was returning to him now, but he argued to himself that this would be a fantastic opportunity to refine his mental models of Harry's friends.

And it would also be the new source of many inside jokes that Tom would be able to feel like he was a part of.

"So, does everyone know how to play 'Truth or Dare'?" Hermione asked.

Tom was abruptly reminded of Hermione Granger's Introductory Poker Lessons, and was forced to repressed a shudder. Tonight he was going to keep all of his clothes on, thank you very much.

"Come on, Hermione. I know we're not as smart as you, but give us some credit," Ron said, shaking his head. "The name literally says it all."

"I wasn't sure if it was known in the Wizarding World, that's all I meant by that," Hermione defended herself.

"Who's going to go first?" Neville interjected, cutting off the pointless argument that they were detouring towards.

Hermione and Ron both refocused on the group. "We usually spun a bottle to start things off whenever we played at home, but we don't have a bottle here," Ron said thoughtfully.

An empty bottle appeared in the middle of their circle.

"I love magic," Hermione said fervently.

Eager to start the game, Tom reached out and gave the bottle a deft spin, then settled back into his spot, watching the bottle avidly as it spun around and around. Then he had to look away, because he was worried that if he watched it any longer he would start to get dizzy.

Eventually, the bottle settled right on Ron, who smirked and said, "Hit me with your best shot."

"Truth or dare?" Hermione asked, tone casual.

"Dare, obviously," Ron said, and then had some more of his drink. Tom had to admire his bravery, because Hermione had already proven she could be downright diabolical when and if the mood struck her.

It was therefore unsurprising when Hermione beat them all to the punch by speaking first.

"I dare you to hand your shoes over and play the entire game without them," she said, enunciating clearly. There was a broad smile stretched across her face the entire time.

Ron took off his shoes. "C'mon Hermione, that's not even a fun dare." He handed his shoes out for Hermione to take, and she accepted them graciously.

"We'll get to those fun dares soon enough," she added mischievously.

Tom didn't want to dwell on that for too long, mainly because he'd already resolved to keep all his clothing in his possession, so he focused on Neville and asked, "Truth or dare."

Neville looked startled, and Tom thought privately that he ought to have been expecting the question. "Oh crap, I am next aren't I? I couldn't figure out which was clockwise for a moment. Anyways, truth."

Tom thought about what to ask and, when neither Ron nor Hermione jumped in, asked, "What was it like killing Nagini?"

"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant," Neville looked extremely pleased with himself. "I was finally able to do something real to beat the bastard, and he was so mad about it. Until he died, of course."

Tom regretted his question. Oh, he knew Neville had been obligated to do it. Getting rid of Nagini had been unavoidable because she was a Horcrux. That didn't mean he felt any better about the loss. Nagini had been his 14th pet snake, and the one with the longest lifespan. Out loud, he said, "Good for you, Neville."

"Thank you very much," Neville said, executing a dramatic half-bow from his seated position.

"Alright Hermione: truth or dare," Ron asked with an anticipatory gleam in his eye. Tom knew they were sort of dating or whatever it was people their age called it, but he wished they would just start snogging or something. At least then he would know if he was supposed to be looking at them or not. Tom got up to get a refill of his drink since he was clearly not going to be needed for this particular question.

From behind him, Tom heard Hermione say, "Dare." Since his back was facing the others, Tom felt secure as he rolled his eyes at this. Gryffindors.

There was a brief pause before Ron said, "I dare you to destroy a library book."

Hermione gasped. It didn't even sound that exaggerated, she was genuinely that shocked and offended by the idea of destroying a book. "But those aren't _mine _," she protested.

"A dare's a dare, Hermione," Ron said.

Tom turned around, his newly filled drink in hand, and saw that Hermione was digging around in her expanded beaded bag. He sat down just as she evidently found what she was looking for.

She set a book on the ground in front of her and pulled her wand out. "_ Incendio _," she said, and the book burst into flames. "Are you happy now?" she asked, as the book sat in front of her, still burning.

Tom was impressed she'd managed to actually do it given that 'Truth or Dare' wasn't exactly the definition of a high stakes game.

"Yes, I am," Ron said.

"Good. _Aguamenti_. _Reparo_." Hermione cast both spells in quick succession. "You never said it had to stay destroyed," she said smugly as she replaced the book back into her bag.

Tom applauded this. He actually put his drink down and clapped twice. He should have known that Hermione would find a way to get out of harming a library book. And she did it with such panache, too.

"Oh, c'mon, Hermione, that's against the spirit of the dare," Ron complained.

Hermione wasn't having it. She crossed her arms briefly, then said, "Then you should have phrased your dare better. And there's no repeats, so don't think it'll be that easy." And then she uncrossed her arms, picked up her drink, and deliberately took a nice, long pull of it.

"Fine," Ron whined, and Tom suspected that this was not the end of Ron and Hermione's game night rivalry.

"Harry? Truth or dare," Neville asked.

Tom knew that the answer to this question probably wasn't that significant, but he didn't feel like taking the safe and easy route. He didn't feel like acting like a Slytherin, really. "Truth," he said, before he could think too hard about what he was doing.

Immediately after 'truth' left Tom's mouth, Ron asked, "Do you or do you not have a tattoo of a Hungarian Horntail on your chest?"

Tom stared at Ron in bewilderment for a moment. He'd expected something... much more difficult than that. Then he started to answer, only to forget momentarily whether Harry actually had a tattoo or not. There was one horrible second where he had to stop himself from pulling open his collar and surveying his own chest. Then he recovered as he realized he was being stupid. It wasn't like he hadn't just taken a shower this morning. "No, Ron. And stop being so gullible."

Ron said, "I had to know! Ginny kept making it sound like it was a real possibility!"

After that shameless declaration, things rapidly deteriorated in their little game. The questions and the dares continued to escalate as they all got considerably less sober. Ron chose 'dare' again and lost his school robes to Hermione, where they joined his shoes in a pile. Tom thought that her decision was probably partially fueled by the whole burning the library book thing, because robe theft was followed by her threatening to strip Ron again if he didn't refrain from inciting damage to public property.

"Okay, okay, Ron's turn," Tom said with a giggle. "Truth or dare?"

Ron giggled back at Tom. "Uh, truth."

Neville said, "I've got this! What were you thinking," he paused dramatically, "when you dated Lavender."

Ron groaned. Apparently he was not drunk enough for the memory of his ex to be any less embarrassing. "Look, okay, so, look. She was there, and she was interested in me, and I just thought to myself—what if I dated her? Right? She was alright at first, but then she got so… so odd and clingy. And then I thought, well, Hermione will see this—me and Lavender—and get jealous. And then we could be together instead! 'Cause I liked Hermione more, from the start, you know, but I didn't think I could just ask her out like that. But then Hermione totally absolutely did get jealous, so it was a brilliant plan."

Hermione threw her beaded bag at him.

"Oy! That was uncalled for," Ron protested.

Hermione hiccuped and said, "I think it was perfectly called for. Anyways, it's Neville's turn so: truth or dare?"

"Dare," Neville said.

"I dare you to light that stool on fire," Tom said quickly, and gestured dramatically at a stool somewhere behind him.

Neville lazy pointed his wand at the aforementioned stool. "_Incendio_."

Tom whipped around to watch it burn. The flames looked extra wobbly, although perhaps that was just Harry's impaired vision. Or the alcohol. It reminded him of that one time he'd set Billy Stubbs' entire room on fire back at Wool's Orphanage.

Nobody said anything for a while as they all watched the wooden stool continue to burn, the top surface beginning to char. Eventually Tom turned back around, which everyone took as a cue to resume their little game.

"Alright. Hermione, truth or dare?" Ron asked.

She tapped a finger against her chin. "Hm, dare."

"Send your Patronus to Malfoy, but make it say, '_Suck my dick, Malfoy_'," Tom said.

Surprisingly, Hermione pulled her wand back out and sat up ramrod straight, her expression completely serious as she said, "Okay, someone say something to make me mad, because I want this to have some good intonation behind it."

"'Something to make me mad'," Ron said in a pitched mockery of Hermione's voice.

"I know I said to make me mad, but ooooooo, you're asking for it." Hermione's hair seemed to frizz and crackle as she glowered. "Okay, that's perfect. _Expecto Patronum_." The silver otter burst forth from her wand, circling lazily around her head as it waited for its instructions. Hermione, still gloriously annoyed, said, "Tell Draco Malfoy: suck my _dick_, Malfoy!"

Tom hooted proudly and was quickly joined by Ron and Neville. The three of them continued hooting and cheering until the silvery Patronus disappeared through the wall, off to deliver its charming message to the scion of House Malfoy.

Hermione took a short bow from her seated position.

A minute of silence passed as thought they wanted to give Hermione's dare a respectful, thoughtful berth.

"Truth or dare," Ron asked Tom, once the moment had passed.

Tom thought back. He'd been doing mostly truths, so he thought it was likely time to mix it up. "Dare."

Neville said, "Harry, you have to get a pet snake."

That was an excellent idea. Tom had no idea why he hadn't thought of it yet. There was no reason to be so depressed about Nagini when he could try to fill the void with a new snake friend. He stood up. "Alright, I'll be back in a jiffy."

"What? What are you doing?" Hermione asked, half-rising out of her seat.

"Going to get a snake." Tom said, confused as to how she hadn't followed this. "Because Neville dared me too," he added, just in case that part wasn't clear either.

"You'll have to get it tomorrow, the Magical Menagerie is closed," Hermione said.

"But, I'm a Parselmouth."

"And that matters, why?" Hermione said.

Tom looked at her funny. "I can just go outside to the Forbidden Forest and call for a snake. It won't take long for one to show up. Then I just have to give it a name. Something that starts with 'O'."

"Really?" Neville asked, looking impressed.

"Really!" Tom confirmed. He took another step towards the door. "I'm just trying to fulfill my dare, really."

Hermione fully climbed to her feet, closely followed by Ron and Neville. "Harry's right, I suppose," she said. "He has to get a pet snake."

"I'm not wearing shoes though! Or robes!" Ron protested as he followed their group out of the Room of Requirement.

"Tough," Hermione said, patting her beaded bag that now held the aforementioned items.

Tom truly had to admire her guts yet again. He was struck by the thought that she would make a phenomenal Dark Lady.

Ron and Hermione continued to bicker, but Tom tuned them out, sure that it must have been some complex, modern-mating ritual. Instead, he focused on his soon-to-be snake friend. He would obviously have to name them, but choosing the name was the most difficult part. Obviously the name had to start with an 'O', but there were so many good options. Even the word 'options' started with an 'O'! Thankfully, he had the entire walk to the Forbidden Forest to figure it out.

"I'm thinking of naming my new pet snake Octavius," Tom said aloud eventually, interrupting whatever argumentative flirting was going on between Harry's two best friends. "Unless any of you have a better suggestion."

"What if it's a female snake?" Neville asked.

Tom paused. "But snakes don't think about gender. They just assign each other the names and pronouns that they want." None of the snakes he had ever countered cared about what they were called, so Tom had stuck with his simple, alphabetical, alternating-gendered names. He wasn't about to compromise his entire naming system just because Neville didn't understand how his snake familiars worked. There wasn't any reason to be fussy with the concept of whether it was a male or female snake.

The hallways were deserted as they made their way down to the ground floor. Seeing as they were out after curfew and Neville was Head Boy, Tom was fairly sure that they wouldn't be running into anyone they couldn't handle. Unless it was McGonagall. But that was silly, she was probably extremely busy and didn't have time to waste patrolling the corridors when there were prefects and other professors to do that for her.

"How far into the forest do we have to go?" grumbled Ron, rubbing at his arms. "It's already drafty in these hallways."

Hermione huffed at him. "Are you a wizard or not?" She waved her wand and cast a Warming Charm on him.

"Thanks Hermione, you're a lifesaver," Ron said, grinning at her.

Tom almost pointed out that the reason Ron was cold to begin with was because Hermione had stolen his clothing again, but then he figured it was probably just them flirting, so he tossed the thought away. Maybe he would ask Neville to explain to him later how all this dating business worked.

They stopped just before they were about to exit the castle. Ron was gazing upon the dark path that led to the Forbidden Forest with what could only be described as extreme apprehension. He turned to look at Hermione with pleading eyes.

"A dare is a dare," she said primly.

Ron grimaced. "Is there some kind of Charm you can cast on my feet?"

Hermione beamed. "Thought you would never ask." She cast another spell, this time aiming for Ron's Chudley Cannons socks. It was impressive that she was managing all this spellcasting despite being inebriated. "Now you ought to be able to walk on without fear."

The Forbidden Forest loomed threateningly in the cold September air. Tom wasn't sure if it had always been that scary and he'd just been braver in the past, or if the alcohol was just causing him to imagine creepy things lurking in the shadows that weren't there.

"So how do you plan to actually find a snake?" Neville asked, a hint of apprehension in his voice.

Tom drew the holly wand, "You may want to block your ears," he warned them, right before he cast, "_Sonorus_."

"'_Sssup sssnakessss, who wantsss to be my new besst friend_," Tom hissed into the forest. In the past, he had simply stumbled upon his snake friends, so this attempt was utilizing a new, untested method. He wasn't actually sure what would work to get one to come, so he figured something basic was a good place as any to start.

They all stood awkwardly in the chilly, still slightly ominous forest, waiting for something to happen. From the depths of the forest, a rustling sound began to build, gradually getting louder as it neared them.

"_Finite Incantatem_," Tom mumbled. Now that his voice was once again at a normal volume, he said excitedly, "I think I hear my new friend coming!"

It took longer than Tom had thought it would take since they'd been able to hear the approach for quite some time, but eventually an absolutely massive snake came out of the shadows. It slithered into the part of the forest lit by their wands, pausing only to lift its head and peer about curiously.

_"Ssso who iss my new besst friend?" _the snake hissed, looking between them.

"_That'ss me! _" Tom responded excitedly.

The snake slid the rest of the way into the clearing and Tom could now see clearly that it had a pretty black and yellow diamond pattern that stretched all along its body. Its scales were small and neatly line in grey.

Tom started to bounce onto the balls of his feet out of excitement. This snake was bigger even than Nagini had been! Nagini had loved to wrap herself around Tom's arm whenever he carted her about, so that she could bite people without the extra effort of having to lift herself up. This snake looked like they could probably wrap most of their entire length around Tom and still have some body leftover with which to move around, which would be brilliant for pranking people.

Now, Tom had always thought that it was comforting to have a large snake wrapped snugly around you, but most of his Death Eaters didn't seem to agree, thus the need for pranking. Lucius, in particular, had been very afraid of Tom's pet snakes, but since Lucius had been equally insistent on pretending that he _wasn't _afraid, Tom had told his pets to hiss extra loudly whenever Lucius was around.

_"Do you have a name, sspeaker?" _the snake asked, and Tom realized that he needed to name the snake, too.

_"My name isss Tom. And yourss iss now Octaviusss," _Tom declared. Then he realized that he was supposed to be Harry now, so 'Tom' wasn't really a smart answer. Ah well, he was the only one here who could speak Parseltongue, so it was probably fine. Then, remembering what Neville had said, he stepped closer and squinted at the snake. "_Are you a male ssnake _?"

The snake looked at him, equally confused. "_What isss 'male'? _"

"_Nevermind_," Tom hissed. It wasn't important. He had never checked before, so it didn't make sense to start doing it now. Snakes didn't have much use for human concepts, anyways.

"I named my snake Octavius!" Tom announced to the watching group. He turned to look at them all, and realized that they were no longer in the forest with him. Stepping around a few trees, Tom saw that they had all retreated so that they were now standing a few feet outside of the forest.

"Guys?" he called, not sure why they had left. Maybe there really was something dangerous lurking about that he hadn't noticed? That wouldn't do. If there was a wild, vicious creature nearby, then Tom would have to dispatch it in order to protect them, and that might give him away if he wasn't careful.

"That is a ruddy big snake, Harry!" Ron yelled, eyes wide.

"Harry, I really don't think that's an appropriate snake to have," Hermione added nervously.

Tom frowned. Their voices sounded funny, but given it was dark out and they were a distance away from him, it was hard to tell what was wrong. Clearly he needed to get closer to figure it out. To Octavius he said, "_Come, Octaviusss, and I will introduce you to my friendsss. _"

So Tom strode confidently out of the forest, Octavius right at his heels.

"Harry! That is a very large snake!" Hermione said loudly, stating the obvious.

"Yes, and the snake is my new friend?" Tom replied, confused.

"How are you going to keep something that big as a pet?" Neville asked, in a tone that he probably thought was quite reasonable. Tom was beginning to get offended that they were all being so rude to Octavius. No one had even introduced themselves yet.

Tom scoffed. "Are we wizards or not?" he asked in response. "I'll just shrink him so he fits in our dorm. He can sleep under my bed; I'll make him a nest!"

Ron suddenly made a noise like a whimper, his eyes still fixed on Octavius.

"Isn't it wrong to alter the physiology of a living thing for extended periods of time?" Hermione said slowly, her brow furrowed.

"Let me ask Octavius their opinion. If they don't want to be my new bes—_ pet_, then they don't have to be."

Tom turned slightly so he wouldn't have to see anyone's reactions while he spoke to the snake. The Death Eaters were always so aggravating anxious whenever he and Nagini had been conversing, even though they were perfectly polite as they did so. "_Would you mind if I made you sssmaller ssso you could be my besst friend? _"

Octavius's head weaved from side to side for a moment before they hissed back, "_I would get to live insside, yesss? And you would feed me, yesss?" _

Tom enthusiastically responded, "_Yesss, I would give you all the fresh meat you could dessire and you would be very warm with me._" By now, Tom was intimately familiar with what motivated a snake. If his offerings failed, then Tom would offer to find them a mate, since that was the only other thing he could possibly imagine a snake wanting. Octavius was the coolest, biggest snake that Tom had met in a long while, and he was quite determined to have _this _snake as his new friend, not another lousy, less-large snake.

Thankfully, Octavius hisses, "_Then I will be your new—'pet'. _"

Tom turned back around. "Octavius says yes!" he happily informed Ron, Hermione, and Neville.

Hermione turned to Neville, aggressively putting her hands on her hips as she said accusingly, "This is all your fault, Neville. Now we're going to be living with a massive snake!" She was getting so worked up that she was swaying a little as she spoke.

Neville stumbled a half step back and put his hands up placatingly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time! And I don't know if it'll be that bad... it's kind of cute. Plus, if Harry likes it, it's probably fine."

"I don't see why you need to be so upset, Hermione! You aren't going to be the one sleeping in the same dorm with it," Ron exclaimed. Then, looking back at Tom and Octavius, he swallowed then nodded firmly. "Harry, if you think it's fine, then I trust you. If it eats me in my sleep, though, then Neville's going to be my new best mate."

Tom wanted to diffuse this situation before it escalated any further. He didn't want to be downgraded below Neville. He turned back to survey Octavius to see if they inspired any ideas. And they did! "_Do you mind if I sssit on your coilsss and you pull usss along? _" Tom asked Octavius.

"_Ssure_," Octavius replied.

Tom grinned and immediately mounted the snake.

"Hey guys, look at me!" Tom said loudly, absently noting that he seemed to have interrupted something new that was happening between Ron and Hermione. Ah well, they could engage in mating rituals when Tom was doing things that weren't so important.

"Wicked!" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione and Neville just stared at him in shock. Well, at least someone in the group had responded appropriately. Maybe Harry's decision to have Ron be his best mate had some merit to it.

"_Jusst back and forth a bit_," Tom hissed quietly at Octavius.

And so they all made their way back into the castle, with Ron walking next to him and Octavius as Hermione and Neville followed at a distance. Tom thought they were all having great fun, up until they encountered a shadow moving at the end of a particularly long hallway.

"Uh oh," said Ron.

"Very eloquent," hissed Hermione. "How on earth are we supposed to hide when we have a _giant snake _with us?"

Tom slid off of Octavius and withdrew the Elder Wand. "_Thisss might tickle_," he said, and then promptly made Octavius invisible.

"A giant, _invisible _snake," said Neville. "I'm having flashbacks to our second year at Hogwarts."

"Oh?" said the voice of Minerva McGonagall, who was now rounding the corner and looking at them all rather severely. "Would that be because you are all, once again, being caught where you are not supposed to be?" Then she eyed them more closely, and said, in a tone that bode dread, "Mr. Weasley, might I ask where are your shoes?"

Ron shuffled awkwardly in place. His sock-clad feet were covered in dirt. "Ah, that," Ron said, words slurring slightly. "Would you believe me if I said a giant snake stole them?"

* * *

_**Some Time Earlier...**_

Draco turned another page of his book, doing his best to ignore the presence of Nott and Zabini in their shared dorm room. Unfortunately, he was so focused on ignoring them that he had absorbed absolutely none of the textbook he was trying to read.

Ever since the three of them had come back to Hogwarts, the atmosphere of their dorm had become nearly unspeakably awkward. This was largely due to Draco's history of being a spoiled brat, but also because of the entirely different stressors of the year before, the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a dull spoon.

Draco sighed and absent-mindedly turned yet another page he had failed to read. He'd have to go to the library in the morning and try again, but for now he had nothing better to do, and so he might as well continue the charade of reading.

It was for this reason that Draco failed to notice the presence of the otter until it was directly in front of him.

He dropped his book onto his lap in shock.

Then Granger's voice issued forth from the Patronus, saying, "Suck my _dick_, Malfoy!"

There was silence that reigned for an indeterminate period in the dorm room, and then Nott started laughing hysterically. It was loud, maniacal laughter that only cut off when Draco shot him a look of pure spite.

* * *

A/N:

omake:

[ronmione holding hands]  
**tom:** do i. look? neville are we supposed to be witnessing this? is it an... intimate moment?  
**neville, under his breath:** merlin save me from the sex talk  
**us, the authors:** :)  
**neville, looking at the camera:** the authors are not going to spare me from giving lord voldemort the sex talk


	10. Just a Good Time, Man

A/N:

Happy birthday, Tommy. Very sorry for all the sads in this chapter.

Shoutout to user certifiedclown on ao3 who bookmarked this story with a comment that we blatantly stole for this chapter title. This chapter is not, in fact, a good time.

* * *

_**CHAPTER NINE  
**_

**_Just a Good Time, Man_**

* * *

"I cannot believe that you basically told McGonagall that I'm a giant snake," Hermione said, with a mild glare in Ron's direction.

Ron shrugged his shoulders. "Would you have preferred that I tell her we were playing 'Truth or Dare' and drinking?" Ron asked.

Tom snorted. "I think she already knew about that second one," he said sardonically. Then he patted Octavius reassuringly, just to be sure that they were settled after Tom had shrunk them. The meeting with McGonagall had been a close call, so Tom had decided to shrink Octavius and stick them in his pocket, just to be sure that they would stay safe.

They were nearly back to the common room after making their escape from Professor McGonagall. She had, thankfully, not taken any house points or assigned them any detention. Honestly, she had seemed more amused at their antics than anything else. However, she had warned them that next time she would not be so lenient, but there had been a small smile on her face as she'd said it, so Tom didn't feel it was a serious threat.

It had been a bit odd to be on the receiving end of a lecture from a professor though, that was something he'd only distantly experienced during his time with Harry before.

"It was fairly obvious," Hermione said reluctantly.

Tom nodded absently. He was now considering what he ought to do with Octavius. His pocket was far from an ideal environment to keep a snake. Ideally, he'd have a realistic replica of Octavius's true home, but he didn't think that was plausible at the moment.

Neville gave the password to the Fat Lady, and then they all, somewhat unsteadily, clambered into the common room.

Tom was relieved to see that the common room had cleared of people, though a part of him wondered what time it must be for everyone else to already be asleep. "We could just stay here," he said, reluctant to end their night of fun just yet.

"Yeah, I'd be down!" Ron said.

Neville shrugged and said, "Sure, I haven't lost anything too valuable yet—like too much of my dignity—so I wouldn't mind continuing."

"And I would love a chance to embarrass you all some more," Hermione said, sitting down in her favorite armchair by the fire.

Then Tom decided that now was a good time to do something about Octavius, so he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled the snake out. To the group, he said, "Would one of you mind calling Milley and asking her to bring more drinks? I'm going to go and settle Octavius into our dorm room."

Hermione lazily pointed her finger at him. "Y'know I don't approve of using house elves," she said.

"Ah, why don't you use some of your winnings from our poker game to pay her?" Tom said.

"It's fine," Hermione said, drawing out the 'n' sound. "Go take care of your snake. We'll get things ready down here."

"Thank you," Tom said. Then he turned and hurried up the stairs to the dorm, making sure he was quiet so as not to wake the other children.

Once he got to his room, Tom headed straight for his bed and conjured a terrarium, which he set upon his bedside table. Then Tom added in all the necessary accessories that would help keep a snake healthy and happy.

When Tom pulled Octavius up to eye level, he noticed that they were asleep, so he gently set Octavius in the terrarium, being careful not to wake them up.

Task of creating a home for Octavius now complete, Tom considered whether or not he should unshrink them. After a moment of weighing the benefits of both sizes, he decided not to. If he ever needed a special surprise, all he had to do was cancel the shrinking spell. Having a shrunken pet snake was quite the fun surprise to have up his sleeve, just in case.

With Octavius settled and the size decision made, Tom hurried back down to the common room. He arrived to see that the armchairs had been rearranged into a circle by the fire, and that Ron, Hermione, and Neville were all talking about something.

Tom paused on the steps for a moment, watching as Ron tossed his head back, laughing at something that Neville had said. A small pit opened up in Tom's stomach, and he had to take a deep breath to try and force it away.

The act of inhaling and exhaling mostly worked, so Tom squared his shoulders and pounded down the last few steps into the common room.

"Harry! We were just waiting for you to get started," Hermione said.

The pit in Tom's stomach made itself known again. Tom took another deep breath, trying to force it away for the second time. He could see that they had pulled a table closer to the fireplace and set a pitcher on top. Tom assumed that the drink was alcoholic, and so he made a beeline for it– he could certainly use a distraction.

"Anyone know what this is?" Tom asked, gesturing to the pitcher. He was asking more out of a desire to join the conversation rather than out of any real curiosity.

Ron squinted at the pitcher and said, "I think it's got gin, and, uh, something strawberry."

"Works for me," Tom said and poured himself a glass. He took a sip of it, and then decided that there was definitely something strawberry involved. Beyond that, he couldn't even begin to hazard a guess. It did, at least, taste good.

Tom went and sat down in the empty chair they had ostensibly left out for him. "So, are we ready to go?" he asked.

"I think," Hermione said with a sly grin, "that the real question is: are _you _ready?"

"What? I just went—I'm not the one who has to worry," Tom said. His dare was the whole reason they'd gone out to the forest in the first place.

"Oh," Hermione said. She stared intently at her drink, then said, "Well. Then, Ron, are _you _ready to go?"

"Oh, fuck," Ron said, lowering his glass of—whatever—slowly.

"Truth or dare," Hermione asked, pronouncing each word with such delightful malice that Tom was inexplicably reminded of Bellatrix.

Ron looked like a deer frozen before the headlights of a car. "I'll take a dare," he said nervously.

From there, things deteriorated for Ron in particular, though Tom and Neville were also getting swept up in Hurricane Hermione. She wasn't doing anything so crude as stealing their clothes this time, but had instead chosen to jump in with increasingly humiliating dares.

After being forced to perform an interpretive dance routine to 'God Save the Queen', followed by being dared to deliver a rousing rendition of the 'Wheels on the Bus', Tom had decided that he would choose 'truth' at the next available opportunity, lest he be further required to exercise his vocal cords.

Tom rather thought that Hermione would still find a way to cut in with an embarrassing question or something—she was simply so fast at thinking up horrible new ideas that Tom and the others had continually failed in their attempts to rescue each other from her.

"Truth or dare?" Hermione asked primly.

As planned, Tom said, "Truth."

"Why do you want to be an Auror?" Neville asked, in a rush.

Tom had been apprehensively watching Hermione for her potential response, so it took him a moment to process what Neville had asked. At first, some of the tension in his shoulders released itself at the relief of being spared from Hermione.

But then he started to actually consider what his answer to the question ought to be.

The question about Harry's future. The tension flooded back into Tom's shoulders as he realized that he, Tom, had stolen Harry's future from him. Harry would never get the chance to be an Auror, but, more than that, Harry would never get to do any of the other things that he would have expected to do.

Harry would never graduate from Hogwarts, would never marry anyone, would never have any children to pass his family name onto.

And he would never have that chance because of Tom.

Forcefully, Tom ripped his thoughts from the downward spiral they had slid into and tried to focus on finding the answer to Neville's question.

Why had Harry wanted to be an Auror?

Tom dipped into his mind, into the portion of it that was reserved for Harry's memories. A quick excursion revealed the answer to the question, an answer that Tom now realized he ought to have already known.

Harry had wanted to be an Auror to help people, and because Defense was one of the few things that Harry was recognized for being good at. So Harry had chosen the career path of an Auror as the best way to utilize his talent.

But now, Harry would never get the chance to be an Auror, or help people, or even discover some other way to be helpful.

It was then that Tom realized he was still sitting, frozen, and that the others were waiting somewhat impatiently for his answer.

"Because it's... what I'm good at," Tom said. He didn't think that Harry would have ever admitted a lot of his drive to be an Auror stemmed from his need to feel useful.

Ron, Neville, and Hermione all nodded, though Hermione looked a little disgruntled at having lost the opportunity to cut in with something embarrassing. The game quickly moved on to Ron's turn, and Tom threw himself into the game with as much gusto as he could manage.

His determination to stay in the present and not _think _gave him the mental acuity necessary to save Ron and Neville from Hermione on occasion. His success seemed to drive Ron and Neville to try harder too, so with their combined efforts it once more became safe to pick dare. And that was good, because Tom wasn't sure he had the fortitude to withstand another 'truth' as cutting as the last one had been.

When Tom's turn rolled around again, it was Neville who asked him: "Truth or dare?"

"Dare," Tom responded easily.

"I dare you to go to bed," Ron said at once.

When Tom failed to immediately move, Ron added, "I'm getting tired, alright? I think it's time we went to bed."

Tom had spent the entire tail-end of the game focusing on not being alone with his thoughts, so the thought of going to bed and being well and truly alone with his thoughts was not at all an appealing one. In fact, it was downright terrifying.

But unfortunately for him, Hermione got up from her seat, stretching her arms out. "Yes, we really need to get _some _sleep," she said.

Ron and Neville quickly followed suit, standing up to stretch, and so Tom did too.

"Good night, then," Hermione said.

Ron, Neville, and Tom all chorused back with a simultaneous, "Good night."

Then they filed up to their dorm as quietly as they could. Tom took his time in getting ready to sleep, trying to delay the inevitable moment where he would be alone with his thoughts. Still, eventually, Ron and Neville turned into their beds, pulling their bed hangings closed with a muttered good night.

And it was then that Tom discovered he did not need to actually be _in _bed for all the sadness and guilt and horror to come rushing back into his chest.

Tom stumbled onto his own bed, sliding between the covers and snapping the hangings shut. He curled onto his side, clutching his arms around himself as tightly as he could manage. The certainty that he was a terrible person was finally settling in.

As he continued to lay on his bed, comatose, all the thoughts he'd been suppressing came flooding through him.

Thoughts of the future that Harry could have had, _should _have had, paraded through Tom's mind. The knowledge that _he _was the one who had stolen that from Harry drove a stake of pain through his chest.

He, Tom Riddle, had managed what Lord Voldemort had failed to do. He had killed Harry Potter. Tom had been thinking of himself as _different _from Voldemort, because he thought he was sane and had learned something about emotions.

But the truth was, Tom was as evil as Voldemort had ever been. He was evil and despicable; everything that Harry was not and had never been. Even since that moment in the forest where Tom had taken control of Harry's body, he had continued to do terrible things.

Good people did not use someone else's identity as a shield from their past crimes. Good people did not lie to the other people in their lives.

Every time Tom responded to the name 'Harry', every time Tom searched through Harry's memories for the answer to a question, every time Tom put Harry's name at the top of an assignment—he was lying. Tom had been lying to every single person that Harry had once loved—that Harry still loved, really.

Despite his best efforts, Tom was fundamentally still as evil as he had ever been. Harry's friends did not deserve to be around someone as despicable as he was. They didn't deserve to be lied to.

Tom slid his arms up from where they'd been wrapped around his knees, pulling them tightly across his chest.

A memory came sliding out. It was from the area of his mind that was devoted to Harry's memories. As a similar scene began to play out in his mind's eye, Tom realized that he had learned this poor substitute for a hug—wrapping his arms around himself—from the days and nights Harry had spent locked in the cupboard under the stairs.

Tom immediately flung his arms away from himself, feeling as though he had violated something. He instead went to lay one of his arms over his face. It was then he realized, distantly, that his arm was wet.

He moved his arm once more, rubbing it with his other hand. Then he patted his face with the same hand. There was water leaking from his eyes.

A heartbeat later, the correct word presented itself in his mind: crying.

Tom Riddle was crying.

He swiped at the tears with both hands, taking a deep breath in through his mouth. Crying. He could not believe that he was crying. Harry had cried, yes, but Tom had not, had never. His memory was as flawless and accessible as it had even been, and Tom could not recall the last time he had been driven to tears by his emotions.

Stewing in his discomfort, Tom flopped over and buried his face in his pillow. He willed himself to fall asleep quickly, desperate to escape the pain of his thoughts. Though it took him a while, eventually his exhaustion won, and he fell into a sleep that was thankfully free of dreams.

* * *

The next morning, Tom woke up with a dried crust around his eyes and a lingering weight in his chest. He rubbed irritably at his eyes for a moment, then sluggishly pulled on his dressing gown and made a beeline for the toilets.

As the others were still asleep, Tom was careful to be quiet as he got ready for the day.

He already felt like a terrible person for simply existing around them, and so he didn't want to add anything else to his long list of crimes, even something as small as waking them up by accident.

As soon as he was semi-presentable, Tom hurried down to the common room. Thankfully, as he had suspected and hoped, Hermione was there, sitting in an armchair and reading a book.

"Good morning, Harry," Hermione said, looking up from her book.

"Morning, Hermione," Tom returned, walking over to sit in the chair beside her.

"I take it the others are still asleep?"

"I thought I heard Neville stirring as I was leaving, but I can't be sure," Tom said.

Hermione shrugged and said, "I am a bit hungry, if you wanted to head down to breakfast without them. I'm sure they'll figure it out quickly enough once they're actually up."

The weight on Tom's chest was heavy enough that he didn't feel particularly hungry. "That sounds good," he said anyways.

Hermione gave him a long look, then closed her book gently and got up from her seat, putting the book back into her beaded bag as she did so. Then she gestured for Tom to lead the way out of the common room.

The walk down to the Great Hall was not a very pleasant walk for Tom. The turmoil of his emotions kept him from paying very much attention to what Hermione was saying, which in turn made him feel guilty for not paying attention to Hermione, which only added on to the black cloud that was hanging over him, which, of course, made it that much harder to pay attention.

Thankfully, Hermione seemed fine with carrying the conversation on all by herself, even though Tom wasn't able to pay attention, much less participate.

Hermione continued to chatter about something, maybe several somethings, all the way to the Great Hall and throughout the first part of breakfast.

Even with the space Hermione was giving him, Tom did not get anywhere close to sorting through his internal issues. The delicious breakfast that the house-elves had served also failed to bring him any joy. Everything tasted like ashes on his tongue.

"Good morning," Neville said.

Tom jumped. Though he hadn't noticed their arrival, Neville was now sitting next to him, and Ron was now seated across from him and next to Hermione.

"Morning," Tom said.

Ron and Neville then went on to engage Hermione in conversation, so Tom was able to slide back into his own thoughts, not feeling marginally less guilty since Hermione now had better company to talk to. Depressingly, this still failed to make a difference in his ability to sort through everything.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked suddenly, startling him. "You've been off all morning."

"I'm fine," he said automatically.

Ron, Neville, and Hermione's expressions practically shone with their disbelief at this statement.

"You don't have to talk about it, Harry," said Neville. "But you also don't have to pretend like you're fine when you're not."

"Yeah," Ron said. "We're here for you, whatever you need."

The weight on Tom's chest felt as though it doubled in size. He struggled to breathe properly through the weight that felt as though it was now consuming him. The care with which Harry's friends were treating him, Tom, made all that he felt about the masquerade and everything else that much worse.

Tom plastered on as sincere a smile as he could muster. "It's alright, really," he said. "I'm fine."

The looks the others gave him implied, very clearly, that they did not believe him, but they did resume their conversation after a moment of staring at him.

This wouldn't do. While he worked on figuring everything out, Tom would have to be that much better at pretending. He did not _deserve _their empathy or their help, so he would have to ensure they believed that everything was alright with Harry. At least until he figured out what he was going to do.

Tom fixed a smile onto his face and threw himself into the conversation. He would have time enough later to sort through everything. For now, he had an act to maintain.

* * *

Days passed. Tom only continued to grow more anxious about being found out and cast aside. Of seeing Harry's friends turn their wands upon him, hatred in their eyes. With all the years of memories he had swimming in his mind, Tom didn't think he could stand knowing that they hated him, though they had every right to do so, because he was not who they thought he was. He wasn't Harry, he wasn't their friend, not really, which also meant that he shouldn't have been here.

What made it worse was that he often felt as though he _did _fit here. He found himself forgetting to pretend, forgetting that he didn't belong—only to find that Hermione still smiled at him, that Ron still clapped him on the back, that Neville still offered him a quiet comment when the others were caught up in something or another.

Though he tried to ignore it, Tom started to feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut whenever he thought too long about his pretending. It was a pain he hadn't truly felt since the day of the Battle of Hogwarts. Since the day he'd woken up in the Forbidden Forest as the Boy-Who-Lived. Part of Tom knew exactly where the pain came from, knew the cause of it, but he was not quite ready to face it. He wanted to live in denial for a while longer.

In the past he'd derided Gryffindors for their reckless courage and foolish morals. They had been meaningless in his grand schemes for power. They had been the Dumbledores that stood in his way on his path to excellence.

But now, he could see the difference.

In Slytherin he'd been shunned for his half-blood heritage, and he'd been ignored in favour of those with wealth and pureblood status. Tom Riddle had been forced to fight for every ounce of acknowledgement he'd gotten in the house of the ambitious. When he'd failed to earn their respect, he'd sought to rule them with fear instead.

But Harry's friends, mostly Gryffindors, were brave and loyal and kind. All traits that Tom never would have considered to be valued above cunning and ambition. They were accepting, but not foolishly so; they had standards, but they chose to lift each other up to meet those expectations rather than shun those who don't. Tom felt included, wanted, accepted. They were foreign concepts that he wishes to hold on to.

Tom saw, in Harry's friends, the little quirks and traits that he used to call irritating, only now he thought of them as part of being human.

There was Hermione's drive to always do better, to push herself to perform to her personal, exacting standards. There was the way she often picked on the things they did and the way they did them, because it was how she showed she cared, because she wanted them to do as well as she knew they could.

And then there was Ron, who was a constant, reassuring presence with his fierce words and his loyal heart. There were the jokes he cracked into the silence of awkward moments, the compliments he threw in when someone was feeling down, because it was the type of thing he noticed.

Even Neville, who had gotten closer to the group over the past few years, fit perfectly into the dynamic. When he spoke, it was with wisdom and insight. He had grown into himself more, in many ways, and he could hold his own in a conversation no matter what the topic was.

The four of them spent all their time together, and Tom couldn't help but continue to make observation upon observation. His classes didn't hold his attention, and so all he had was time in which to stew over things.

Thankfully, Harry had always been fairly quiet, and so his friends didn't think much of it when his mind wandered off for long periods of time. They were used to Harry sitting with them and watching, only interjecting occasionally. So Tom could sit and think and try to avoid the growing hole in his chest whenever he saw them smiling at him.

He wanted to be the friend they deserved, but he couldn't.

Harry might have been willing to let Tom return to the world of the living for a second chance, but that didn't mean he would have wanted Tom to quite literally take over his life and pretend to be him. If Harry had been here, he probably would have been mad that Tom was taking advantage of his friends and lying to them.

This new notion sat poorly in his gut, gnawing away at his insides. Harry would have been disappointed to see that Tom had squandered his second chance, that Tom was still hurting the people that Harry cared about.

"Harry?"

Tom looked up. Ron, Hermione, and Neville were all watching him expectantly.

"Yeah?" Tom cleared his throat. "What is it?"

"We were just saying that it's a nice day to go flying, isn't it? The rain seems to have cleared up for once," Ron said.

"Flying?" Tom repeated, confused.

Neville nodded. "Maybe we could just do a few loops around the pitch."

"Or we could do a game," Ron said excitedly. "It's been ages since we've played Quidditch, Harry. I know they don't have the cup this year because of, well, you know. All the reconstruction and the people moving about. But we have four of us, and that's enough for us to do _something_—"

"Right, yeah," Tom said, bobbing his head. "Quidditch." Another thing to lie about, he thought dully. Harry loved Quidditch, loved playing Seeker, loved the rush of being on a broomstick. Tom felt none of that, though he did have Harry's fond memories of Quidditch games.

Ron continued to talk about their potential Quidditch game throughout Transfiguration class, and his enthusiasm was so infectious that even Hermione was smiling as they made their way back to their dorms to fetch their broomsticks.

Tom could not boast the same level of enthusiasm, however. In fact, what he actually felt was a bit of dread, because he was going to be expected to play Quidditch well, and it was not a sport that Tom was overly familiar with. Hopefully whatever they decided to do would be relatively simple. Looking over at Hermione, he thought that was probably likely. Hermione was accepting of broomsticks at best, so whatever Ron wanted them to do would have to include her as well, which meant that it wouldn't be too complicated.

"It's a real shame they didn't do Quidditch this year," Ron said as they ascended the staircase to the boys' dorm. "They've robbed you of a year of Quidditch Captaincy, Harry."

"I don't mind," Tom said, shrugging. "There's more important things to worry about."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Like what? Come on, Harry. You can't tell me you're glad they cancelled Quidditch. If Wood was still here, he'd be throwing a fit over it."

There was a pause in which Tom struggled to think of a response. "Well, our NEWTs, for example," Tom said. "Those are pretty important."

They entered their room. Tom walked over to Harry's trunk, where his Firebolt lay inside. He had not touched it much since the start of the term.

"Ah, we'll do fine on those," Ron said. "Plus they'd be barmy not to let you into the Aurors. Right, Neville? Harry's definitely going to get in."

"Ron's right," said Neville. "You'd get in, absolutely." He was holding his own broomstick, which was a model that Tom didn't recognize. He didn't recognize it because he didn't know anything about Quidditch that wasn't Harry's knowledge about Quidditch.

"I guess," said Tom. "Let's just go back down and meet Hermione."

* * *

It was later that night when Tom was laying in his bed, the curtain hangings pulled shut around him. They'd spent a good number of hours outside on the Quidditch Pitch simply tossing a practice Quaffle around, and Tom was exhausted. Not from the flying or the tossing, but from all the interaction. From all of the walls he'd had to keep up to ensure his facade didn't fail him.

The upsetting sensation that had been building all day was still irritatingly persistent. Tom rolled over, trying to dispel it. But even laying flat on his face did nothing to rid him of the despair lurking inside of him. Frustrated, he sat up and got out of bed, pulling on his shoes. He would go for a walk, and hopefully the cold air would help him sort himself out.

Reaching inside his mokeskin pouch, Tom drew out the Cloak of Invisibility and pulled it over himself. Then he tucked the mokeskin pouch into his pocket.

The castle was quiet and comforting as he made his way down the steps and out of the common room. There was something about the familiar walls of Hogwarts that helped settle him, as if the presence of Hogwarts' ambient magic was the equivalent of an entire good night's sleep.

As Tom grew closer to the ground floor, the air around him turned colder. He repressed a shiver as he pulled the Cloak more tightly around his shoulders. He didn't have a particular destination in mind, so he just let his feet carry him on forward.

Inevitably, he ended up back at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

He clearly couldn't get away from this place; there were too many memories tied to it, not to mention the increasing sense of—he could admit it to himself now that there was no one around—_ guilt _that Tom was also lugging around with him.

Tom fingered his mokeskin pouch, which was still sitting in the pocket of his pyjama trousers. The Resurrection Stone was inside of it, though he had not touched it since he'd first put it into the pouch.

The idea of talking to Harry still frightened him.

Perhaps this had all been a mistake. He had been foolish to believe he could continue on as Harry for any period of time. Tom had no place here. Though Hogwarts had been his first and only home, he did not belong with Harry's friends. He did not deserve them. He had done nothing to earn their favour and their trust, and it was disrespectful to Harry to remain here pretending otherwise.

Tom thought back on the past months he had enjoyed as a part of Harry's group of friends. The games they had played, the jokes they had shared. He felt overwhelmingly reluctant to leave them, but he was starting to think it had to be done. The longer he stayed, the more attached he would get. The best thing to do would be to leave now, before it felt any worse.

He would leave now, and he would feel alright again. Eventually.

Frowning, Tom scrubbed a hand through his hair. Such a decision should have been obvious. He was growing too attached, he was lying too much and soon it would catch up with him. He liked Harry's friends _too much _, and that was exactly why he had to leave them, because he couldn't bear to pretend any longer.

While he had always carried a sense of right from wrong within him, Tom had never seen fit to act on his screaming, battered conscience before. It seemed that years spent as a soul piece attached to Harry Potter had been enough to revive that portion of himself quite fully.

Perhaps this was what had been missing in him, what had been previously broken.

Tom Riddle had never had friends or family. There had never been anyone to disappoint. In his isolation, he'd been forced to turn to the only constant he had—himself—to keep himself sane. He'd put his faith in his uniqueness, his power, his magic. He had shunned all else in his promise to himself, his promise that he would never know weakness again.

But Harry, oh, there was a boy who had grown from a loveless childhood to a life filled with warmth and vigour. Harry had taken his heart and put it into the hands of those who had nourished it. He had possessed a trust and loyalty that Tom had never known, never bothered to know.

Harry had learned from his tragic past and sought to make his future better. Now Tom had learned this lesson as well, though it was too late for him to fix the wrongs he had committed. He was long past the point at which anyone could be expected to forgive him, and he was only digging himself further down by pretending to be someone he was not. For even though he was not Harry in name, he would never be anything like Harry in spirit. He was too tainted, too damaged.

There was no good reason for Tom to remain here, sullying the friendships that Harry had spent time and love cultivating.

Steeling himself, Tom turned around and marched back up towards the castle. He would pack his bags tonight, then leave a note for Harry's friends explaining who he was and why he had gone. He would also include that he was not going to hurt them, he was simply going to leave them all alone, which was what they would probably want from him anyways. Then he would leave Hogwarts for somewhere else, and he would just have to hope that they would not come seeking retribution.

The castle felt less friendly as he walked back towards Gryffindor Tower. Tom wondered if it was just his dark mood at work, but then quickly decided that, regardless of the cause, he probably deserved it. Hogwarts itself was in agreement: he needed to leave.

The Fat Lady was not pleased to be woken up at this hour, but she admitted him into the common room. Tom took some time to gaze around at the room: the cooled fireplace, the comfy armchairs, the garish red and gold colouring. It was strange to realize that, over the past few months, this place had also become a sort of home to him.

Tugging his mokeskin pouch out once again, Tom called up some parchment, a quill, and an inkwell. He would write his letters down here in the empty common room. Then, once that was done, he would return upstairs to pack his things—Harry's things—and leave the grounds to Apparate.

Unfurling a fresh scroll, Tom settled into one of the cushioned chairs to write. As he stared at the blank expanse of the paper, he tried to think of where to begin. How did he even begin to explain what had happened? Who should he address first? The lateness of the evening was getting to him, and he was rapidly losing whatever composure and resolve he had possessed.

But it had to be done.

Scrawling Ron's name at the top of the page, Tom tried to force himself to think. Blinking, he thought back on the last few months he had spent as Ron Weasley's best friend. Thought back on what it was like to have someone call you their best friend.

Ron's name on the page stared accusingly back up at him, and it was then that Tom noticed he had written the name in his own handwriting, not Harry's. Tom wondered if he ought to change his handwriting back, so that they would recognize it. If he was coming clean, he reasoned, then it was all the more reason to dispel the illusion entirely.

Dipping his quill back into the inkwell, Tom braced himself and began to write in earnest.

In the end, there were five letters in total: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, and Luna. The five people he felt that were most owed an explanation, the ones he felt secure enough in trusting with his secret. If they chose to spread the information around afterwards, then that was up to them to do so.

Glancing up for the first time since he'd begun writing, Tom saw that dawn was beginning to break across the horizon. He was running out of time, he realized sadly. He needed to wrap this up and head upstairs.

Rolling up each individual letter, Tom conjured ribbons to tie them with, and then gathered them into his arm. He would leave them on his bed, so that they would see them first thing in the morning.

Tom tiptoed up the steps to the boys' dorm. The door to their room had been left slightly ajar from when he'd left earlier. Tom pushed his way inside and dumped his scrolls onto his bed. Though they were only sat upon his bed covers, the little pile looked ominous.

Forcing himself to turn away, Tom moved to Harry's trunk and opened it up. He could probably fit all of the vital things into the mokeskin pouch, and the rest of it he could simply dump into the trunk for later.

Decision made, Tom moved to the wardrobe, opening it slowly. There were a number of jackets, cloaks, robes, shirts, and trousers hung up inside. Truly, it was a sorry sight, because Harry had never bothered to update his wardrobe aside from his Hogwarts robes. Tom picked out a few items and tossed them into the trunk. Then, after a further moment's consideration, pulled everything down and tossed it in as well. He could always use the extra clothes as Transfiguration material.

Next were shoes. Tom scooped up three pairs of shoes from the bottom of the wardrobe and placed them into the trunk. Taking a step back, Tom shut the wardrobe and looked around the dorm room. Then Tom shrunk down Octavius' terrarium and levitated it into his trunk. There wasn't really anything else left to pack, aside from his school books.

Though he could have gathered them all with a wave of his wand, Tom took the time to painstakingly pick up each book, tucking them one by one into Harry's trunk. Then, once that task was done, Tom surveyed the room a final time. He would have liked to visit the girls' dorms, to see Hermione one final time as well, but unfortunately that was not an option.

Ron and Neville were still sleeping as Tom dragged his trunk up by its handle.

He lingered in the doorway, still reluctant to leave. They would be upset and worried when they discovered his bed was empty. They would feel even worse once they read the letters he had left for them.

Stupidly, Tom remembered that they did not know that Harry was dead. Somehow, though he'd written this fact multiple times in his letters, he had forgotten that Harry's friends had not had the benefit of months to reconcile the loss of Harry in their lives. Tom still wasn't over it, and he'd only been a mere passenger in Harry's life for nearly sixteen years. Harry's friends cared and loved deeply, and this was going to hurt them.

But better for them to know the truth now, to struggle through the hurt and free themselves of the lie. It would be worse if Tom were to stay, pretending and lying, only for them to find out months or years later that it was all fake. As it was, the feeling of betrayal was bound to be incredibly horrific.

Though part of him wanted to stick around, to hide under the Cloak to see their reactions, he knew he would not be able to stomach their grief over Harry and, later on, their disgust towards him.

Gripping the handle of Harry's trunk more firmly, Tom began to descend the steps to the common room. The Fat Lady was asleep as he pushed his way through the portrait hole, and the castle was deathly silent as he reached the bottom floor.

The sun was partially visible, now. Tom could see it past the mountain ranges in the distance. With a heavy feeling in his gut, he began to walk down towards Hogsmeade. It would be a long walk, but he could use Harry's broomstick to speed up the process. Then, once he arrived in Hogsmeade, he could Apparate away somewhere. Somewhere where no one would be able to find him. Perhaps he could seek out one of his old safehouses, one of the places he had built during his time as Lord Voldemort.

Tom stopped walking. He had reached the part of the castle that met the grass. Looking down at the divide, he couldn't help but feel that this next step would be very permanent. Once he had left, there would be no coming back. They would never accept him again. That much he was sure of.

His throat was swelling up again at the thought of their hatred of him, but Tom choked the emotion back down. He had to leave, he repeated to himself firmly. It was the right thing to do.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Tom stepped forwards. He was moving into the dawn, into the new day, into the unknown.

**END PART TWO.**

* * *

A/N:

Thus ends the first part of Tom's road to redemption! It sure took us a while to get here, but Tom has learned much about friendship and love along the way.

Thank you to everyone who has followed this story so far.

_**We will be continuing this story in PART THREE, so make sure to stay tuned by following our author profile!**_

Part three will be titled 'Tom Riddle and the Boy-Who-Lived', and will feature Tom's letters as well as the use of the fabled Resurrection Stone to call up our favourite green-eyed, dark haired wizard.

In the meantime, please, please leave us your thoughts! We write this on top of our own individual works and stories, so it's harder to find time for to write this together. This universe has a lot more planned and we're very excited to share it with you all... we will share faster if the response is better!

Thank you and happy new year,  
Amanda and Hannah


End file.
